


To have fate without Destiny

by mikeginsanity (blahblahwahwah)



Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Friendship/Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-09-17 06:41:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 58,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9309890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blahblahwahwah/pseuds/mikeginsanity
Summary: What if Ginny met Mike while she was in the minors? Before Ginsanity became what it was.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's always intrigued me what sort of relationship Mike and Ginny would have before the full force of her celebrity status.  
> WARNING: Baseball inaccuracies for sure. Please point them out to me. I shall be happy to fix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys....if you are reading this it means you've come to reread ch1. There was some major baseball inaccuracies that I had to correct in this one. Thank you for being gracious.  
> As I have repeatedly said...Baseball isn't my forte so i was v. v. reluctant to publish this fic, but the overwhelming support I have received has kept it going.

**San Antonio, Texas**

**2014**

* * *

 

 

(In retrospect, it’s not _exactly_ the worst way to meet one’s hero.)

The idea of Lawson being ‘farmed’ probably had to be more horrifying for him that for the fans. It was sad enough that he’d been DL’ed at the start of spring training but when news began to circulate that he was going to spend the season out in to San Antonio of all the places (like the double-friggin’-A, hello?), it would be natural to say that Ginny wasn’t the only one shocked.

The day of his arrival was a day of conflict.

Literally.

Ginny had bid goodbye to Will the previous day with mixed feelings. Not only was she going to miss Will, there was the annoying realization that her new agent-to-the-stars Amelia Slater was a woman who clearly did not understand boundaries.

Suffice to say, Ginny didn’t sleep well that night. She kept dreaming of Pop and the accident.

Her morning started with Amelia getting into a fight with Ginny’s landlords about the apartment. The pittance pay of the minors forced her to live in a dingy studio above a grungy bohemian gay couple who were lenient on the rent but stingy on basic amenities like continuous water supply and electricity.

Amelia kicked up a fuss about her shoddy and smelly living conditions, threatened to sue the owners for neglect, and then threatened to sue for wrongful eviction when they served Ginny notice out of spite for her interference. To add fuel to the fire, the guy from Big Joe’s sports apparel yelled at her on the phone about the terms of her contract departure which (surprise, surprise) Amelia had negotiated.

All this before she had her first cup of coffee.

Despite Amelia’s promise that she’d take care of Ginny’s ‘situation’, Ginny felt the need to get away from the infuriatingly controlling woman. She went earlier than usual to the park feeling disconcerted and doubtful about Will’s idea to let Amelia take the reins, hoping that the sight of young girls waiting on a picture or her autograph would inspire and convince her of her decision.

Ginny was not prepared to see a larger fraction of males in the crowds that day; more teenage boys and grown men than the pre-adolescents. That was when she recalled the Skip mentioning about Lawson’s arrival.

That filled her with renewed positivism, even helped her forget the morning’s debacle.

Sure, she was going to meet the face that was still up in her bedroom was at her home in Tarboro and _play_ with him. Sure, there was enough to believe that Lawson was as nice in person as he seemed on TV. Sure, he was the one active ballplayer who consistently held her admiration even through her nascent adulthood.

Sure, these might be reasons sufficient for excitement – but they weren’t. Ginny didn’t have any unrealistic expectations of her hero. Pop had drummed it into her, long ago: meeting your heroes is almost always a disillusioning experience.

Ginny knows how she is perceived by even the nicest of men with the best of hearts:  A mascot, a distraction, punchline to a joke – a _girl_. Even without the overt sexism, Ginny’s been ridiculed and scoffed at enough, to be aware that no male player takes her seriously at face.  (Can’t hold that against them, Y-chromosome stupidity and all -  she’s made her peace with that.)

She was excited - because of the potential to _learn_.

A _real_ major league player on the team.

The experience he brought along with him would be a treasure,  there was enough to gain by just observation alone. And sure, if she managed to make a good impression, maybe even befriend him, then that was just an added bonus.

As a habit, Ginny was always the first in and last out of the locker room. There was no space for her to change or shower, so ensuring that she was the only one around pretty much ensured her dignity and her safety.

She yawned wide as she drifted in, rubbing tired eyes, burning from lack of sleep and mental exhaustion. She snapped the lock shut thinking that she’d have the clubhouse all to herself having arrived earlier than usual, kicked off her shoes, peeled off her t-shirt in swift motions, hopping out of her jeans, bending to rummage through her duffle for her uniform, ‘ _Wide Awake’_ by Katy Perry buzzing in her mid.

She was mid-way humming through the chorus when she turned around and –

Time stopped – literally.

Her hum turned into a wimpy squeal, her jaw fell and she _felt_ her eyes jumping out of her head.

Literally - _that_ is the first thing she sees. (- And yes. That is forever going to be the story of how she met Mike’s penis.) 

That thick, long, monster-sized dick.

Seeing man parts aren’t really a big deal for Ginny. Spending most of her time in skeevy locker rooms mean it’s an occupational hazard for her. Her father had _that_ conversation about boys, and it was so awkward that it completely stripped her of the thrill of seeing a boy’s junk for the first time. And really – it’s not like she’s never seen big boy-parts before.

(Okay so maybe the fact that it’s way too early in the morning and the fact that subconsciously she knew it was Mike Lawson has something to do with it, but -)

But this was no boy here.

No sir.

She drags her eyes up, away from that well-hung appendage, away from that patch of hair that thinned into an apex below his navel, over that buff body, over those thickset arms folded over his burly pecs, right up over that distracting beard, half-open mouth, sharp nose and straight into the shocked widened hazel eyes.

There he was - the man on her wall – and his… _organ_.

(She ought to apologize. She should turn away…and stop looking.)

It’s just that her brain’s disconnected from her body. 

She tries to focus on other things except her eyes won’t go anywhere but… _there_.  She gulps repeatedly, even manages to glance at his blank face weakly - but yeah that _thing_ between his legs – it’s quite the eye-magnet. 

She’s expecting his shock to change to anger but it doesn’t.

“Look what we got here….” Ginny hears the words loud and clear while her eyes are fixed on _it_. “Ginny Baker…”  ( _It knows my name!_ _He. He. Not ‘it’. ‘He’._ _He knows my name.)_  “…In the flesh.”

 _Flesh – yeah – lots of it_.

Ginny lets out a shrill squeak and spins around, breathing heavily.

Because – yes – she just saw Mike Lawson. Naked.

And turning around didn’t help at all, because it _-he’s_ there as well – in the mirror, still naked. Mouth wide, teeth bared, cheeks appled – he’s _grinning_. 

He meets her eyes in the mirror; doesn’t look remotely apologetic when he's caught trailing eyes down her exposed mid-riff to her ass.

Ginny’s aware that she’s only wearing athletic boyshorts and a sports bra with the rest of her skin on display. She’s aware that she’s got a body that goes with her face that usually predisposes for getting ogled at. Usually, this is the point where she’d chastise a man for leering – on principle.  Except, the grown-ass powerful lioness in her does not want to roar about the fallacies of objectifying women. (She pretty much spent the previous couple of minutes gawping at his monster sized member and she _still_ can’t stop thinking about it. So – yes, if Mike Lawson, Ginny’s idol, man on her wall, occasional visitor of her dreams is standing there ogling at her half-naked posterior view – she’s going to let it slide. Just this once. On principle.)

He grabs a towel, covering himself and looks at her meaningfully.

Her loud exhale of relief has him double over in stitches, as though it wasn't a big deal that she saw him naked. “I’ve been answering questions about you forever.” He says, jovially. “And that is not easy for me y’know…talking about other people? They tell me I’m a narcissist.”

_Questions about me?_

“I uh…” She stutters. His eyes jump up to meet hers in the mirror. She makes a helpless expression at his reflection. “I should tell you…I have your rookie card…”

He shakes his head, stilling laughing silently.

“…you’ve been my favourite player since I was…” She rambles on.

“Yeah, don’t.” He cuts her off, and then turns around, like he’s acknowledging her discomfort.  “Makes me look old, makes you look stupid.”

She clamps her mouth shut and hurriedly gets dressed with her hands shaking, and everything moving like it’s slow motion.

“So, is this a thing for you?” She hears his jaunty voice, as she tucks her shirt into the pants.

Ginny looks at his broad back in the mirror. She can see large freckles and moles.

“A little pre-game ritual? Like to see men naked before you warm-up?” He drolls.

She’s too ashamed to get riled up at his taunt.

“No…I um…” She explains, hurriedly. “Usually no one’s in at this time. I – there’s no separate locker room for me so I uh – come in early to change.”

“Oh?”  The humour leaves his voice. He turns his head to the side, sounding almost – like he cares.

“Um – you’re good.” She says, not meeting his eyes, when they both turn around to face each other again.

“So.” He says, grinning at her, leaning back against a locker.

“So.” She says, swinging her arms back and forth, loosening her shoulders, pursing her lips, looking everywhere else, _not_ -looking at those hip grooves peeking out of his towel.

“Did you wanna shower or something?” He asks.

That’s a dumb thing to say given that she’s already suited up. “No, no.” She says, quickly.

“So then…?”

She looks up at him. He wiggles his eyebrows at her expectantly.

“Oh! Right!” She blushes. “Yeah!” She shoves her duffle in her locker, picks up her cleats, her glove and socks. “Yeah – I’ll just wear…” She grimaces. “…these….outside.” She tries to act cool, shoves her cap on and walks to the door – barefoot.

“Hey Baker!” He calls.

“Yeahp?” She squeaks as she fidgets with the lock, letting it fall open.

“Maybe knock next time?”

“Sure thing.” She wags her head and walks backwards, nearly trips over one of the benches but steadies herself.

His booming laughter and a whole new sense of embarrassment follow her on the way out.

 

* * *

 

To think that Mike Lawson would to sit out the first day observing was probably foolish. He doesn’t. Reason: he’s Mike Lawson, he gets whatever he wants.

Ginny wonders if the crowd that day is probably a microcosmic experience of a big-league game.  She hears the noise all the way as she dawdles towards the exit. When she emerges to survey the crowd, Ginny’s not surprised to see more ‘ _Lawson’_ and ‘ _36 Padres’_ related placards than the ‘ _I’m Next_ ’ ones.

Vikram, the F&B manager jogs up to her, hands her a snickers bar and a can of grape soda, looking overwhelmed, frantically takes off in another direction. “Ran out of beer! Full house! Hey did you meet Mike Lawson? Good luck!” He huffs and then he’s gone.

“Quite a crowd for non-Texan, hah?” Bob, their manager, chirps.

“Gah! I forgot how fuckin’ hot this place is!” She hears Lawson roar behind her. “What’s _‘I’m Next’_ about?” He utters in the same breath, as he saunters in.

“Li’l girls gonna to be the next Ginny Baker.” Blip says with pride, slapping her back. “Ginny’s a celebrity here.”

Ginny doesn’t miss Lawson’s dismissive snort. She does not appreciate it.  

She's already a little more than piqued at him. She had observed Lawson and Walker at pre-game practice wee bit of resentment for the following reasons:

a) She wasn’t getting to pitch today, not because it wasn't her turn, it's just that Bob specifically wanted to skip her start. (And who knew why Bob did half the things he did anyway?)

b) Lawson and Walker bonded like a house on fire and Ginny had that feeling again. (That ‘little girl peering into the glass window of the Old Boys Club’ feeling).

c) He’d pretty much ignored her all morning. (Maybe he thinks it's commonplace for a married man in California to have their dicks displayed to other women or something. If the morning’s encounter bothered him, he doesn’t seem perturbed by it.)

At the bottom of the first inning, the Lawson goes third in the batting lineup with two bases occupied. Things look good. His form is superb (even has her wondering why they chose to bump him down). He scores a beautiful inside the park three-run homer that has the crowd lose its shit.  S

She jumps up and cheers. He gives her a snooty look when he comes back when she attempts to high-five him. Suffice to say, it dampens her goodwill.

 

To add insult to injury, Bob embarrasses her in front of Lawson. He bellows at her when she begins pacing a hole into the ground. (Lifelong aspirations of pitching with Mike friggin’ Lawson aside, Ginny’s always antsy when she doesn’t play in general, so can she be blamed?) She knows it annoys everyone, but, she’s pretty sure it did not warrant the: “Baker, if you don’t sit still, I’m gonna handcuff you to the guardrail!”

To which Lawson makes an indignant gaggling noise, which she does not appreciate either.

 

It soon occurs to her that the she’s the only player in the dugout he chooses to be plucky with. The only time he talks to her is when he spots her popping the soda can open and chortles indignantly, “Grape soda? What’re you eight?”

Insulting her grape soda -? Another thing she does not appreciate. 

 _(Hmph._ So much for good impressions.)

 

Ginny’s also feeling a mite jealous. Blip and Lawson know each other for all of five minutes and suddenly they’re like two-egg twins separated at birth, reunited by some ESP connection, laughing, joking and slapping each other’s butts.

(Yeah, so, whatever. She doesn't have too many friends. She gets possessive about the ones she has - _at times_. She’s human, alright?)

Ginny sulks in a corner, feeling small and useless. The only reprieve she gets is the short-lived sadistic victory of Walker and Lawson are unable score an out at the top of the second inning. The opposing team makes two runs. Lawson glares a hole into Walker’s face when they walk back after being pulled out. Walker just ignores him, but Ginny can see that the young pitcher is disturbed when he stalks to the water can. 

“What the hell happened out there?” Blip wonders aloud, only so that she can hear. “They were killing it at practice.”

“Great rehearsal, bad opening night.” Ginny shrugs.

She pretends not to see Lawson’s angry glower at her statement. She pretends not to feel a tiny bit smug about it.

By the time they're at the bottom of the fourth, she’s relieved about not playing. Given the way this game was going, at least she wouldn’t get blamed for losing.By the time, they’re at the top of the fifth, Ginny zones out, completely unconcerned with two things: Mike Lawson and the game. She gets bored and her mind automatically starts to wander

She replays that Black Violin song she heard on the radio earlier. She starts thinking about what Will, and what he’s up to, then wonders what Evelyn’s cooking for dinner, then wonders if Amelia’s going to make her quit her part time job running errands for the sweet Mrs. Brown across the street. 

She steals a glance at Mike Lawson who’s in deep conversation with Bob and Blip and her thoughts divert to him. 

(Why has he opted for the _Missions_ instead of the  _Chihuahuas?_ Rumors are he’d been forced to opt for AA. He barely spent a month on the DL before the decision was made.

Ginny thinks that if she’d been bumped into AA on the back of _that_ career, she’d be pretty sore and downright anti-social. In her three-year stint at the minors she’d encountered a host of senior players being shuffled up and down. If Minors players became bitter and cynical then Ginny was positive she could expect nothing less from the Mike Lawson.

But he was a nothing like that. His douchebaggery towards her notwithstanding, it's admirable how professional and friendly he is with the players.)

She steals a glance at him once more, and observes the beard. Doesn’t know what to make of it. He’s almost unrecognizable when she tallies it with the posters on her wall. It gives him a rougher, meaner look and hides the genuinely almost childlike grin that had her teenage heart doing cartwheels. At thirty-four he’s too young to have a mid-life crisis (and even if he was having a mid-life crisis – he’s already got the flashy red cars. There’s no rumours of trouble with his marriage.) Really – that beard makes no sense, so she wonders if it’s a new trend in California. At which point, she wonders what Will and Blip would look like with full fledged beards instead of frenchies.

She’s still bobbing her head in tune with the beats of the song, when she feels three pairs of eyes on her.

(Lawson looks at her with a cartoonishly strange thing happening to his face. She reckons he’s amused at the head bobbing.) 

That’s when she realizes that Walker and Lawson are not going back. 

The prospect of relief-pitching has her worried, she's never done it, not even in the little leagues – and worse, it's a double switch. She’s going to have to go out with Stykie.

Lance ‘Stykie’ Stykes, her catcher for the past few weeks, was pulled down from AAA couple of months ago. Ginny reckons he hates her probably as much as she loathes him. He played with some sort of unspoken vendetta and she isn’t sure if it’s against her or the game of baseball in general.

Ginny sucks in a deep breath, feeling unbalanced as she heads to warm up. Stykie’s already showing signs of provocation for calling for cutters and sliders, just to piss her off. But, out on field, he’s a gentleman, for once. He calls for her specialty pitches. She agrees with almost all his calls –  strikes out three hitters in a row, gathering an uproar in cheers from the crowd. Ginny knows he’s doing it to impress Mike Lawson and she doesn’t mind as long as it works for her too. The little girls particularly go wild and that always gives her an ego boost.

When she’s back, she notices Lawson’s eyes studying her as she hops down the steps. He nods at her, but she tosses her chin away haughtily and heads straight for the rest of her grape soda. He lifts an eyebrow appreciatively, whether it's her pitching or her sass she doesn't know. ( _Pity_! She had hoped he'd be more affronted.) 

 

 

* * *

So. She tanks it. The game and her dignity.

 

Ginny's was not supposed to start the second game either. Lawson wanted to give things with Walker another go. As it turned out, shit hit the fan. Those two made a horrific pair. Runs were given up like freebies. Ginny knew she was going to be called in even before Bob gestured for her to warm up. Bob called for a double switch again. It made her wonder if Lawson just didn't want to catch for her. She got herself into that trajectory hoping that things will go smoothly with Stykie. She was sent in at the top of the sixth inning, which went quickly and fruitfully. Stykie and Lawson were in some hushed conversation whenever they returned to the dugout. She didn’t want to dwell on the fact that he had time to yap with Stykie but he couldn’t seem to extend the same courtesy for her.  _Whatever._

The problems started in the seventh when Stykie was all heroics. He was calling for fastballs, change-ups and sliders. So much, that she wondered if Lawson put him up to it. (He wouldn't be the first teammate to deliberately attempt sabotaging her game). She waved off his calls multiple times and the few times she gives in, the hitters make runs, leaving her fuming and cursing. She stomped back into the dugout expecting Lawson to be jeering at her, but she’s surprised to find a hard look of heavy disapproval in his eyes.

Not for her. For Stykes.

She didn't know what to make of that, so she didn't want to dwell on it, either. Who cared as long as they won right?

The next day - the third game, happens to be the first home game against the _Cardinals_. Bob was feeling mighty favorable towards her so he let her start. Unfortunately Stykie's gone all out on being an asshole. Thanks to his stupid calls, the game is tied all the way to the eighth. It looks like they may go a couple of extra. She refocuses and reorients her mind,  exhales loud head-space clearing breaths, determined to kick some Arkansas ass because she’s fed up of the game already. She's also fed up of her catcher, but there's nothing she can do about that.

And then Bob announces a switch.

Not her, but Stykie. Lawson’s going in his stead.

Now, Ginny’s been wrongfully blamed for game losses so many times in her life for the dumbest possible reasons because she’s a girl. (She can’t play; if she can play, then she can’t play as well as the men; if she can play as well as the men then its bad luck to have a girl in the dugout or whatever as though the dugout is some sort of nineteenth century pirate ship and they're buccaneers.)

 _This,_ though. This is the one time she can truthfully own the loss because she’s a girl.

She’s a warm blooded, twenty-one-year old girl with biological needs.  

Year and years of imagining him squatting sixty feet six inches away, years and years of observing his tactics, years and years of admiring his focus, years and years of dallying with the idea of being a catcher – just because.

And she goes and fucks it all up with one look at his crotch.

 _That’s_ how she messes up the game.

She looks for his signal but doesn’t see his fingers. No sir. She sees the bulge in his crotch and wonders if it’s just the athletic cup. She thinks about the way _it_ hung, wonders what it’s like when aroused. Then she wonders what it would be like to have some of that. 

_Oh crap._

Now her pitches run wild because she’s thinking about fucking Mike Lawson. 

(Mike Lawson who, by all accounts, is a happily married man.)

 _Dammit!_   

He’s looks ticked off when he calls for time stalks his way out to her.

“What’s up?” He asks, chewing on his gum, furiously.

“Nothing.” She says, shifting her eyes away.

“Baker!” He grinds his teeth.

“Nothin’. We didn’t get any practice ‘sall.” She huffs.

He cocks his head at her and shakes his head. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“’M not lying.” She looks at her cleats.

“Okay then.” He drawls and head back.

Ginny watches his retreating booty, thinks it looks mighty fine when he jogs (- _Goddammit!)_

Malone, the next hitter at bat, is a friend of hers; among the few real ones she’s got among baseballers and she’s always gotten him out with near-perfect precision. Four balls and he walks to first base, looking at her with a funny expression. “You okay GB?” Malone yells. She waves him off with a smile and a wink, turns around to find Lawson in her face, yet again.

“C’mon! I know you can pitch!” Lawson says, sounding concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“Based of two games?” She baits him.

He rolls his eyes at her. “We’ve all seen the videos, Rookie!” He sounds condescending.

Now that – surprises her.

“I’m not the rookie out here, Lawson.” She grumbles, feeling stupid. “You are.”

He throws his head back and hacks out a laugh. When he looks back at her his face falls flat. “Oh. You’re serious?”

(Yeah, it sounds idiotic to her as well.)

 

He jogs up to her after she basically makes a debacle of the next four balls. “Is it your shoulder?”

“No.”

“Is it me?”

 _Yes._ “No.” She lies.

His forehead furrows gape at her as his eyebrows go up. He sighs and then looks at her pitifully. “Is it…what happened that morning, Baker? My first day here?”

 _Definitely, yes_. “Definitely not.” She fibs, confidently.

“Because, I figured its really no big deal for a girl who spends all her time playing with dudes.” He shrugs.

 _Oh, it’s big alright,_ she almost blurts.

Out of nowhere, he goes off into a story of how he accidentally walked in on some old couple having sex which Ginny realizes is his way of distracting her. “Shut up!” She barks. He’s shocked.

(She can’t blame him. Hell! She’s shocked too. She just told her lifelong hero, MVP, All-Star, Captain of the San Diego _Padres_ and a senior ballplayer to shut up.)

“It’s the beard.” Ginny says, saying the first thing that comes to mind.

“I’m sorry?”

She makes a gesture around her chin. “Your beard, it’s distracting.”

He looks downright adorable when he starts stroking it with a confused expression. “I think it gives character.”

“Oh, it’s a character.” She retorts.

He throws his head back and laughs loud, shaking his head. “You’ll get used to it.” He says, still in guffaws.

“Don’t wanna!” Ginny throws her palms up.

He tips his chin at her, chewing the gum. “Okay.”

“Okay, then.” She wags her head and then turns around.

“Hey!” The umpire roars at them. “Move it along lovebirds!”

 Ginny finally pulls her head into the game. Doesn’t work, though.

Bob stalks out onto the field just as Lawson jogs up again. He holds a palm up, forcing Lawson to stay silent, surprising the both of them.

“What’s wrong with you?” Bob bellows at her.

“Nothing, Skip!”

“I’ve never seen you lose focus like this! Are you okay? Are you on your period or something?”

Ginny bites her lower lip to refrain from retorting.

“C’mon Skip, that’s not fair.” Mike drawls, rolling his eyes and chewing his gum.

“Hey!” Ginny snaps at him. “I don’t need you to defend me!”

Lawson’s jaw freezes, his eyes narrow at her.

“Okay, that’s it.” Bob sighs. He makes a sign and pulls them both out.

 

 

Ginny’s ready to kill someone when she’s back into the dugout. She glares Blip’s placating mouth into silence and kicks DC’s leg when he tries to act smart. She clambers into the corner and slaps her cap against her thigh.

Lawson’s in her face again. He’s literally staring down at her.

“Shut up.” She mumbles.

“I didn’t say anything.” He says, folding his arms, but still glowering at her.

“I don’t care that you’re a superstar, or that you’re a major leaguer, or the captain of the Padres, or that I had a poster of you on my bedroom wall. I do not need some guy to step in and rescue me.” She sticks her chin out . “I’ve been just fine without your –“ She makes airquotes. “ _Protection_ \- thank you very much.”

Lawson regards her peculiarly. She doesn’t know him well enough – but she’s pretty certain he’s tying not to laugh. He cocks his head to the side and then blinks at her. “You had me on a wall?”

Ginny looks away from his face, ends up getting at eyeful of his belt – and then there’s that crotch in her face again.

The source of all this upheaval.

Ginny slaps her face and groans.

 

* * *

 

 

“Stop laughing!”

Evelyn doesn’t. She’s cackling out like some movie villain, holding her sides right up until the point of tears.

Ginny promptly regrets her decision to confide in Evelyn Sanders.

“Oh honey!” Evelyn gathers herself. “It’s not your fault.” She grabs Ginny’s shoulders and jabs her thumbs into them. “You need to get laid! You’re so tightly wound up! It’s just one of those – whatchyoumacallits? Freudian slips!”

Maybe Evelyn’s right.

Sexual frustration. That’s what it is.

 

* * *

 

 

Ginny’s powering her bat with ‘sexual frustration’ at practice the next morning, hitting the balls with a vengeance. Lawson comes up to her shoving his gum into his mouth before donning protective body gear, looks at her warily when he notes the trajectory of the balls.

“Would it be inappropriate to say that you’re the second prettiest teammate I’ve ever had…?” Lawson starts.

Ginny rolls her eyes. She refuses to acknowledge the flutter in her chest when he’s right there in her face.

“It would.” She smirks at him and nods. She relaxes her stance and drops the bat, claps her hands and walks up to him.

He’s wearing top of the line shit, she notes; right from the facemask to his cleats. Her _Big Joe’s Sports Apparel_ sponsored stuff really pales in comparison to how crisp and clean he looks.

(She’s not surprised when Bob tells them that Lawson’s taking over as Captain because LaFevre’s been called up to AAA.  “We don’t know how long before he’s called back up to San Diego.” Bob orders all of them. “It would do you fools some good to take direction from him. I’m talking to you Baker!”

Clearly, he was still sore about her performance at the previous day’s game.)

“Wait…second prettiest?” She frowns.

“Yeah…I was in this charity softball came with DiCaprio…” He gets a faraway look. “Beautiful eyes, he shakes his head.” He looks at her and then nods. “Mind if we go over the hitters in the training room?”

“We don’t have a training room.” She shrugs.

He blinks, then smiles shyly. “Sure, I knew that.”

He looks almost childlike, innocent when he does that. She shakes the thought away.

 _Yeah,_ _he probably forgot_ , Ginny surmises.

How many years would it have been since he’d seen the minors, she wondered. He’s not only the oldest, but also the most popular, most illustrious, and perhaps the only long-time major leaguer so far who’s been routed to San Antonio. Nothing about the decision to for him to come AA makes any sense.

“Stykie’s my catcher.” She says, feeling excited more than apprehensive.

He gives her an amused once over, forehead furrows appearing as he scans her. “Not today.” He says.

Ginny’s feeling happy about it. Lawson was a star catcher. An opportunity to work with a man of his repertoire and experience is not something everyone gets. It would also feel normal on some level. Ginny inherited a disciplined pre-game prep habit from Pop. Ever since Stykes came on as her catcher, she couldn’t recall a single game where they went through the hitters list beforehand. The idiot hated prepping about as much as he loved calling for sliders.

“Fine by me.” She shrugs, pulling off her gloves. He nods and walks around her.

And then - smack!

Right on her ass.

Ginny’s face burns as cold fury build up in her body. The hoots, cheers and catcalls coming from the other guys are drowned out by the buzzing in her ears.

And Lawsons’s just – _just –_ casually sauntering off.

“Hey!” She yells.

He stops and turns around. He’s just smiling at her – pleasantly even - like he did nothing wrong.

Maybe he’s trying to teach her a lesson or something, she thinks bitterly. Trying to remind her she’s a woman, that she had no business biting his head off the previous day. She’s disappointed. For a minute there, she thought she had his respect, but then again - Ginny’s accustomed to being disappointed by the behaviour of men. 

She smirks at him sarcastically, stalks up to him, pulling her shoulders straight. “You think that’s funny? Y’think you’re the first teammate to slap my ass to get a laugh from his friends?” She dares him, cocking her hip to one side.

Something akin to realization dawns his face, but Ginny’s too pissed off to give it any credit. He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “No…” He starts, slacking his shoulders and opening his mouth the explain.

“I’ve played two years winterball,” She cuts him off. “This is my third year in the minors, I’ve done stints in hellholes you haven’t seen in decades, superstar.” He regards her with a pensive smile and a silent calculating expression in his eyes as she talks. “Wanna put on a show for the guys? Find a new scene partner, I’m here to pitch! Any questions?” She bites out.

He pulls his head back, like her tirade’s hit him in the kisser. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even look angry. She nods at him, and then turns around and walks back to the mound.

“Hey!” She hears him call, ignores it. “Hey!” He bellows.

Now it’s Ginny’s turn to stop and turn around. She sticks her tongue against her teeth and sighs, waiting for him to throw shit at her – because really, what else can she expect?

He makes a sheepish grimace and shakes his head. “I slap asses.” He shrugs. “It’s my thing. I slapped Walkers’s pimply ass, I slapped Munroe’s hairy ass and as long as you’re on this team I will be slapping your perfect pear shaped ass!” His voice becomes stern “I’m an ass slapper, Rookie! I’m also the captain of this team, so from here on out every time I slap your ass, you just say ‘thank you sir, may I have another’ and take the mound. Do you have any questions?”

Lawson makes that indignant ‘tsk’ when she stares at him. 

 _Okay._ So maybe his explanation makes perfect sense. Ass-slapping is a thing that athletes do all the time.

But she’s always got to have the last word. She wouldn’t be her if she didn’t. “Young DiCaprio, or old DiCaprio?” She waylays him.

“Sorry?” He screws up his face.

“Young Leo, sure, he’s probably prettier than me.” She says in a straight voice, “but Old Leo – he looks like a fish.”

He makes a pensive face and nods his head like he’s thinking over it. “It was a while ago, he was young.”

Ginny licks her mouth and sighs. “Then I think, we’re on the same page, Captain.”

She swings her hand back as she walks around him, swatting his ass – to make a point. It feels firm, hard and -  

Ginny doesn’t mind the way it feels on the bones of her palm, is all she’s saying.

He hacks out a laugh as she walks away. “This is gonna be fun!” She overhears him.

On the plus side – she’s not thinking about his penis anymore.

 

* * *

 

 

Ginny’s all amped up and completely ready to take on the might of world at the game - digging holes to filling ‘em up, making lemonade out of lemons, sports history out of sexual frustration, whatever.

Her game brain finds its footing and she’s got it that day.

Of course, nothing’s ever good enough for Lawson.

Ginny plonks back into her seat in the dugout after a pretty decent performance the first four innings. She wipes her face feeling woozy from all the heat, the sweat and the lactate-attack cramps, shifting uncomfortably. When she pulls away the towel, he’s standing in front of her.

She almost groans loud, waiting for him to give her another lecture.

“You’re waving me off! You gotta trust the change-up.” He says, in a soft voice, like it's only meant for her to hear.

She doesn’t have the energy to argue with him. “My fastball tops out in the eighties.” She sighs. “I don’t always trust it.”

He rolls his eyes and then hands her something. It’s a can of grape soda, her favourite brand, to be specific. She practically lunges for it, ignores his amused chuckle.

(Okay, so maybe she’s overexaggerating with the whole ‘asshole’ thing. Truth is, Ginny finds it super easy to work with him – really. He’s very strategic and intuitive – like Pop.)

“You may not trust your fastball but you gotta trust me, Baker.” He says, lifting his brow and giving her a whole dose of serious-face that makes her forget that there’s an asshole hidden underneath all that beard.

He snatches up the _Travelers_ ’ hitter list from Blip goes over a revised strategy with her as she sips her drink. She wonders when and why he would put so much time into minor league hitters. Most of her catchers were newbies and younger - like her. Maybe it’s all his major league conditioning, or maybe he’s just naturally competitive, like her.

“So you wanna show him my fastball?” Ginny asks, tapping at the upcoming batter’s name.

“Newsflash, Baker. You don’t have a fastball to show.” He quips with a shit eating grin.

_Yay, welcome back asshole._

“You won’t be so smug when I take your face out with it.” Ginny sasses, before she stands up, readying herself to go out.

He looks at her in disbelief and then pats her ass. It’s not conspicuous – more on her lower back than the ass cheek but – he’s looking at her pointedly making sure she knows he meant it.

She drops her jaw with feigned righteous indignation– but can’t control her smile as well.

 

* * *

 

“What does Mama Evie say, ha?” Evelyn drawls. Ginny grabs her arm to stop her from falling off the chair. “What does she say?”

Ginny hasn’t a clue, actually.

(Evelyn and Blip have date night, which as romantic as it sounded in theory, only meant that Evie got a sitter long enough to join them for post-game drinks.

“Such is the glamorous life in the minors.” Evelyn had moped.)

She was distracted when Evie started her tipsy lecture.  _Big Joe 's Sports Apparel_ sent her a scathing email threatening to sue for breach of contract. Of course, Amelia’s on top of it, but it doesn’t make Ginny’s life any easier. 

“Sorry Ev  – tell me again.” Ginny asks.

“C’mon Ginny – I was telling you the benefits of sex – and the benefits of telling me what happens after.” Evelyn whines and then suddenly straightens her face. “Hi sweety!” She flutters her eyelashes at Blip, who joins them, throwing suspicious looks at his wife.

“Where’s your new BFF?” She taunts Blip.

“Aww!” Blip teases her. “Are you jealous of him – or me?”

Ginny rolls her eyes and grabs the beer he hands her.

“So, do you know why he chose San Antonio?” Ginny asks, picking at the label on the beer bottle.

“Rumours are he didn’t - disciplinary actions.” Blip mumbles.

“Disciplinary actions -?” Ginny blinks. “That’s – Mike Lawson we’re talking about. Mr. Congeniality – hello?”

“See, she’s jealous of me.” Blip sniggers at Evelyn. Ginny swats his arm.

“Ow! He didn’t say. I didn’t ask.” Blips says. “Ask him yourself, he’ll come by later.”

“Explains why the whole bar’s flooded with groupies.” Ginny whines.

“He’s happily married.” Blip says.

“Like that stops people.” Ginny snorts, thinking of all the propositions she’s had over the years, all the ‘happily’ married ‘lonely’ players she’s had to push away –thinking of her Mom and _that guy_.

The bartender brings over a bottle of beer that she didn’t order. “From the man, in the green shirt?” He points to a very handsome man sitting over at the bar. He gives her a suggestive smile and waves his bottle at her.

“Is that-?” Blip frowns.

“The _Travelers_  catcher…Trevor Something…” Ginny finds herself intrigued.

“Why’s he sending over a drink for Ginny?” Evelyn mopes. She draws circles around her face and body. “What’s wrong with this?”

Ginny almost laughs out loud at Blip’s unamused smile. “’Cause you look happy, and content and satisfied?” Evelyn’s husband speaks – looking into her face, like the ring on her finger isn’t enough to impress.

When Evie pouts, Blip flatters her. “And he doesn’t wanna mess with this.” He gestures to himself, drawing a circle around his face. That seems to work for Evie who gives her husband a sweet smile.

That has Ginny spurting in quiet giggles.

(If there’s any couple that could convince Ginny on the veracity of soulmates, it was the Sanders.)

“You should invite him over.” Blip offers.

“You know my code…” Ginny says, dropping her chin, glancing at him “I don’t date – oh no –! Here he comes!” She straightens her face and gives Trevor Something a big smile with no teeth when he approaches them.

“Yeah – she doesn’t date ballplayers.” Evelyn announces folding her arms on the table, not sounding as drunk as she was.

“Well, she struck me out three times, now, so clearly I’m no ballplayer.” Trevor Something says, giving Ginny an unmistakable look.

“Uhhuh.” Someone guffaws – in agreement.

 _Oh great._ (Mike Lawson’s - like - right there. Where did he come from?). She turns her grimace at Lawson.

“Davis.” Lawson remarks, nodding at the other man.

Trevor Some- _Davis_ exchanges a nod with Lawson, but doesn’t seem as much in awe of him as much as he seems interested in her.

Lawson’s self-esteem can’t handle that, apparently. He rolls his eyes. ( _He’s just used to all aspiring players falling on the ground and worshipping him,_ Ginny thinks. Really, if Ginny hadn’t seen his dick the previous morning –  _Uh oh. Not helping._ )

Davis gives Lawson an unimpressed smile. Ginny ignores him. Lawson gives Ginny a brash sneer and drags his stool to her side.

“You’re tryin’na strike out a fourth time?” Ginny says, huskily, batting her eyelashes at Davis.

“Ooh!” Evelyn hisses under breath.

Lawson makes a funny noise - somewhat midway between a grunt and snort.

Her sass works for Davis. He looks like the type of man who likes intelligent women who can hold their own. He smiles at her – looks almost shy when he does.

( _And whoo! Lordy! What a nice smile he has!_ Ginny forgets her sour mood. Sweet – charming – not a cocky asshole, totally her type.)

“It’s just a beer!” Davis says, still grinning, “not a date.”

Ginny wouldn’t need much convincing had the circumstances been different. She gives him an enigmatic smile and raises her beer bottle. “Then I’ll say thank you.” She says, unable to drag her eyes off him.

From her peripheral vision she notes the eyeroll that Lawson throws.

“Called strike three!” Evelyn sings.

Davis doesn’t seem offended. His eyes linger on her face long enough for her to get his signal. He takes a sip of his beer, keeping his eyes on her and then nods. “You’re welcome.”

He walks backwards a few steps, keeping his eyes on her and then finally turns around. While Lawson gets introduced to Evelyn Sanders and enquires about the twins, Ginny purses her lips, admiring Trevor Davis’ mighty fine ass as he walks away.

 _Look. Don’t touch,_ she tells herself.

Lawson makes that annoying noise again.

“What?” She snaps, daring him with her eyes.

“Nothing.” Lawson shakes his head, observing her for a while before he diverts his attention to the Blip.

Davis keeps making sexy eyes at her and Ginny – well, she’s human right? So – she feels a little hot and fuzzy and so she ducks her eyes, tosses her pony tail, sneaks smiley glances back at him.

 _What a waste, really,_ she thinks. Trevor Davis, so fine, with that smooth voice, that sexy face, that dark chocolate skin and those perfect teeth.  Ginny’s feeling kind of warm and – (Fucking Mike Lawson! He makes that bloody noise again!)

“Seriously, what?” She glares at Lawson, only to find him shaking his big fat head at her.

He looks between her and Davis with amusement in his eyes and raises his eyebrows before raising his glass of – whatever he was drinking - to her. Ginny is surprised at how cute she finds those forehead furrows are – especially up close.

“I got a code.” Ginny blurts. (Doesn’t know why; she doesn’t owe him any explanations). “I don’t date ballplayers.”

He makes that noise again.  “Word of advice, player to player.” He says, in a hushed voice. “Stick to your code.”

“Word of advice, player to player.” She retaliates, giving him a sweet smile and tipping her chin at him. “It’s none of your damned business.”

Lawson’s mouth twitches, he gives her a conceding smile and taps his glass against her beer bottle.

“Doesn’t hurt to look, though” She mutters under breath, not soft enough for him _not_ to hear.

“Oh Baker….” Lawson leans over. His hazel eyes have a knowing look in them. Ginny finds herself mesmerized by how pretty they are. His drops his voice and mumbles as though he’s the friggin’ mouthpiece of el diablo. “You’re _definitely_ gonna be doing more than looking, Rookie.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's just I don't know much about baseball so I'm literally groping around in the dark at times.  
> The only reason I'm posting this is because you've all given me such encouraging feedback.  
> Just hope you feel the same after this chapter

Icky.

It’s how she feels all over.

The first series of away games since Lawson joined their team, the plane ride to Florida was bumpy and uncomfortable. Lawson bitched and whined like a petulant prima donna the entire way. Blip wasn’t there to keep his diva-ness in check, because he’d sprained his Achilles tendon and had been cooling his heels (literally) back in San Antonio.

Ginny had half a mind to choke her catcher to death. She spent the entire flight imagining a noose dropping from the oxygen mask slot, that she could slip around his neck, watch it tighten. At one point she suspects he might have magically seen into her thoughts (or maybe it was the murderous looks she was giving him) because he went silent looking at her with a contrite expression.

Top of which, when they land in Viera, Ginny starts her period.

As a rule, Ginny usually brings her A-game on those days. No matter how bad the cramps are, or how miserable she feels, or how quickly she tires. She makes a conscious effort to hide it under stoic determination, tries to give in double to compensate. 

 _Endure, endure, endure_. That was the rule

But pitching in hundred-degree heatwave on the second day of her period, the added pressure of trying to make up for a lousy start by Walker the previous day?

Whole new level of endurance, if one were to ask her.

_Endure, endure, endure._

With a lumbar spine that felt like hot lead, her pussy in spasms every five seconds, the discomfort of a tampon worn too long, sweat pouring out of body parts she didn’t even know existed and a slide to home left her thigh sore and her body covered in spittle clumped dust and grass, it was one of those days where showering is an absolute requirement.

Except the visitor clubhouse has an alcove for a shower. No individual cubicles, no doors, not even a friggin’ curtain.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, the guys give her a hard time by refusing to vacate the locker room; “Why do women spend so much time getting ready?” is the reply she gets from Bob when she professes that she’ll be late to board the bus if they don’t let up.

After stewing in her own rank, acrid smell, trying not to overthink that grimey sensation all over her body, consoling herself that the itchy scalp wasn’t critters crawlin’ in her dense hair, Ginny rejoices when it appears that the locker room starts emptying and fishes out her clothes from her duffle.

Only DC and his bum-chum Roy are around by the time she undoes her shoes and pulls off her socks and uniform shirt.

And then, some of the _Fire Frogs_ just waltz in, old pals of DC and Roy.

They continue to linger, throwing curious sneers her way. It doesn’t take long for Ginny to figure it out. They’re waiting for her to get undressed to either prank her by stealing her clothes, or get a peek of her naked.

Usually, Ginny knows how to handle this situation. Usually, she’ll sass, and smartmouth them off. Usually, she’ll kick their sorry asses out by hook or by crook.

Today, her energy levels are close to zilch. Today she just doesn’t have anything left.

_Endure, endure, endure._

Ginny huffs with frustration. She can’t wait any longer. She grabs her towel and change of undergarments, marches into the showers, hooks it on the towel rods. She props the fresh tampon precariously over the towel, hoping it won’t fall and get soggy.

They start yelling at her about dragging in dirt into the showers. She ignores them. They hoot and whistle, even threaten to peek. She bites back tears as she pulls off her uniform.

They won’t come in. Ginny knows that. They’ll just wait for her to come out, they’ll hope she’s infuriated enough to confront their bullshit. Then, they’ll make it out to be her fault if anything unpleasant happens and word gets back to Bob.

She takes the far end of the alcove - the only part of the shower that affords some concealment, but if anyone crossed over to the cul-de-sac section of the clubhouse they’d get a healthy eyeful of from a diagonal angle. She keeps jerking her head around, jumping whenever it seems like their rowdy voices get closer and louder.

“Wow, you guys get to shower with a girl.” One of the assholes from the other team comments. “Boy, am I jealous of you!”

When she turns on the shower a boom of laughter erupts.

“Yo, Baker! You’ve been in there, forever.” DC bellows. “Get out already!”

“Skip says the bus’ll leave without you if you aren’t out in five.” Roy answers. “See, this is why they don’t let girls play with boys, Baker. Y’all spend forever in hair and makeup. Such an inconvenience”

“Yeah, man, I wonder how y’all get any playin’ done with a fine ass like that on the team!”

She takes a deep breath and steps into jet.

“Yo! Baker!” Roy roars. “You need any help?”

“Yeah.” Someone else jeers. “You wouldn’t wanna miss those tricky spots.”

Ginny swallows her pride and turns around to face the wall. She winces as the hot water stings the nasty bruise on her side. She lets the tears stream down, because at least some of the stress abates with their release. She focuses on the pitter-patter of the spray, drumming over her tired bones,  letting it drown out their heckling.

_Endure, endure, endure._

She lets out a final sob before she turns the shower knob, turns her ear in the direction of the clubhouse.

There’s nothing but silence.

“Baker?”

_Perfect._

Ginny wipes her eyes and doesn’t answer.

“Baker?” He calls louder.

She changes her tampon and then reaches for the towel.

“Baker!” He sounds pretty close to the alcove.

“Heard you the first time, Lawson.” She answers – and sniffles loudly.

_Dammit._

“You okay?”

She sighs – tears slip out again. She doesn’t know if it’s anger, frustration or just hormones.

“Everythin’ alright, Baker?” He pesters.

“Yeah, everythin’s peachy.” She answers, gritting her teeth. “You need something?”

“They’re – um – gone. I sent them away.” He calls.

Ginny rolls her eyes, wraps the tampon and discards it in the trash.

“I can take care of myself, y’know.” She says. “This is nothing.”

She can’t be certain if he said something or didn’t.

“I’ve had to deal with a lot worse!” She announces.

There’s a long silence.

“Yeah, I figured.” He replies in a small, soft voice, just after she wraps the towel around her torso, tucking the free end across her bosom.

She shakes her head and swallows a sob.

“Look – there’s no lock on the inside.” He calls out. “I’ll um…”

“There rarely ever is.” She sings, sarcastically.

“You can dress here, Baker.” He sounds cautious. “I’ll stand outside – keep a watch on the door.”

“Oh! Thank you, you big strong man!” She hollers, unable to curb her cynicism. “What would this poor helpless damsel do without you?

“There’s no need for sarcasm, Rookie.” He rebuts.

She grabs her dirty uniform in one arm and her clean undergarments in the other, pads out barefoot, hugging them to her body. He’s sitting by her cubby, leaning his elbows on his shoulders, stroking his beard with worry lines etched deep in his forehead as he stares at the floor.

Beyond him, in the grungy mirror she sees herself. Towel fixed, water dripping from her curly hair,  a ruddy glow all over her exposed skin that usually happens after a hot shower making her look dewy and bright.

(Ginny knows she’s pretty. She knows she’s prettier after a shower.

So, what? It doesn’t change the fact that she’s still a teammate. That she is still entitled to respect.)

“No?” She challenges, dumping her soiled uniform on the laundry bin.

He looks up and blinks rapidly with his eyes widening, his forehead skin irons out. He scans her uncovered shoulders and chest, his gaze drops to her bare legs. She can see his throat bob.

In the silence of the empty locker room, his inaudible gasp seems loud.

And for some idiotic reason she feels flattered.  She sighs and shakes her head, frustrated at herself more than him.

He misinterprets it. His ears turn pink, he glances away with a guilty expression and shifts awkwardly. “Sorry, I’ll um…”

“Guess I should settle for never being one of the guys, huh?” She mutters, trying to distract herself from whatever is stirring inside her.

That irritates him. “Are you kidding?” He barks, and then he looks at her; he doesn’t seem so affected by her half-naked state anymore.

He skirts across the bench, away from her bag, turns around, swinging his leg over the bench, presenting his back to her.

“You’re deluding yourself if you ever think you’ll be treated the same, Rookie.” He growls as she goes to her bag. “You’re a girl. And yeah!” He clucks his tongue. “You’re a pretty girl! Just because you’ve got a hell of screwgie doesn’t mean _men_ are going to stop thinking with their dicks overnight. If you think the majors are going to be any more forgiving you might as well pack up and go home now.”

“The majors?” She echoes.

“Yeah, the major leagues? Y’know? The thing you’re aimin’ for?” He lets out a mocking laugh. “That’s the glass ceiling, isn’t it? Otherwise you’d have to be the first ballplayer I’ve come across whose ultimate aim in life is to stay in the minors.”

He called her a ballplayer. 

Ginny stifles her smile. “I know I’ll never be treated the same.” She protests. “I didn’t just magically appear here, Lawson. Or have you forgotten?”

“Two years winterball, third year in the minors, stints in hellholes I haven’t seen in decades?” He returns, bitterly. “Got it.”

Ginny’s surprised he remembers. She stares at his back. _What is it with him at that stupid jacket?_  

“Get dressed already.” He mutters irritably. It’s clear he isn’t interested in hacking it out.

Ginny pulls on her panties and sheds her towel after wiping herself down, turning towards the mirror. His back is still turned to her. She sees his reflection bending over, rummaging through his backpack for something. She hastily slips on her sports bra and then the rest of her clothes. Just as she pulls on her jeans, he twists backwards, slapping a grape soda and a _Dove_ chocolate bar on the bench behind him.

(He’s a _Hershey’s_ person. Not a _Dove_ person. She’s a _Dove_ person.)

Their eyes automatically meet in the mirror. Seeing that she’s dressed, he spins around and flashes a boyish grin, grunting as he straddles the bench again, facing her. He shirks his eyebrows as if to say ‘what’s up?’.

Like they hadn’t been sniping at each other for the last five to ten.

She sits downs in front of him, pulling on her socks and sneakers looking at the soda and the chocolate bar. 

“What’s that for?” She asks, letting her poorly controlled smile show at the corners of her mouth.

“I’d tell you.” He says with the most endearing expression she’d seen on a furry face. “But you’d bite my head off.”

Ginny looks up from tying her sneakers. He glances away sheepishly.

_He knows._

(Despite everything, Ginny  _delivered_ that day, pitched well by everyone’s standards and they won. Yet, Lawson kept channeling unveiled concern throughout the game, badgering her with roundabout queries.  

“That screwgie hung over the plate too long. Are you feelin’ okay? The last thing I need is for your back to give out while you wind up!"

“You need a breather? Isn’t it really hot out here? The last thing I need is my pitcher losing the ball because of heatstroke!"

“Are you drinking enough water? Do you need some Gatorade? The last thing I need is for you is to die of dehydration in the middle of a scoreless game!”

“You in pain? You wanna be relieved? The last thing I need to be doing is chasing after Bellman’s fastballs, lord knows they’re worse than yours!”

“Did you hurt yourself on the slip and slide? The last thing I need is for you to hurt your arm!”)

It was puzzling then. But maybe not so puzzling now.

_He frickin’ knows._

“I was raised by a single mom.” He mutters when he spots her changing expression. “I have a wife. It’s no big deal.”

He’s not the only player with a wife, but still – no one’s ever noticed or expressed care. Either she’s put up a poor front or he’s hypervigilant.

“It’s biology.” She points out, peeved. “Not some life altering injury that appears every month.”

“I know.” He frowns.

“And yet, you were…you _are_ hovering?” She grimaces sarcastically. “Wanting to protect the little girl because she had lady troubles on the day of her start?”

“Chill it with the feminazism, ‘kay? I’m not being an asshole here.” He grumbles, looking uncomfortable. “I get it. It’s a - _natural – er –_ thing or process or whatever. Like I said, no big deal.”

“What _I_ don’t get.” She jabs her thumb at herself. “Is that, if it wasn’t affecting my game, what was your problem?”

He gives her that frumpy scowl that makes him look ten years older and ten levels of cute at the same time.

“I get _it_. You’re the first woman doing this.” He says. “You’ve got something to prove to all the adorable little girls with their Ginny Baker signs. Maybe you’re a spokesperson for the entire female species and what not, but –” He points at her midriff. “You were also in a lot of pain out there. I could tell. We all have bad days, Rookie. It wouldn’t kill you to let it show, once in a while. It wouldn’ve make you look weak or anything.”

“Yes.” She asserts, vehemently. “It would.”

He glares at her for a long time as though he resents her disputation. Ginny glares back at him until he concedes and his face softens. “You’re right.” He admits. “It would.”

Mike Lawson, admitting she was right. _Really, could the day get any weirder?_

“I don’t let it come in the way.” She insists, rubbing her scalp with the towel, drying her hair. He watches her actions. “Like it doesn’t come in the way for a lot of women in stressful, physically demanding jobs. Surgeons, ER nurses, policewomen, servicewomen, stay-at-home moms – other athletes.”

“It’s just…” He sighs and then looks down at the bench. “I’m your catcher.” He murmurs.

“So?”

“So, if you were a dude suffering from nut pains, I’d be doing the same thing. 'Hovering' or whatever it is you called it.”

“Nut pains?” 

His face breaks into a big grin and his eyes twinkle. Ginny looks away because that thing stirs inside her again. That thing she doesn’t want to feel.

(Not for her catcher. Not for her teammate. Not for the guy who was once on her wall. 

Not for a married man.)

“My back gives me trouble at times, so I carry a heating pad with me all the time. If you need it in the bus or the plane, just, let me know, ‘kay?” He says, and then gets up. “It’s just a heating pad, Baker. Not a gender-political statement.”

He leaves the clubhouse before she can say anything.

 

* * *

 

He _always,_ always sits with her on the bus.

How and when they go from awkward strangers (her, awkward; him, stranger) to buddies, from being Lawson to Mike, the player she idolized (whose penis she accidentally saw) to her closest friend – is completely lost on her.

They just – connect.

Which is weird because, he’s an unapologetic narcissist, loves to listen to himself talk, his speeches are like in Blip’s words: “Probably worse than being waterboarded.” And, where others treat her with a forced civility, Lawson is unabashedly heavy on sarcasm and asteism.

A lesser woman might run home crying, but Ginny is a person who thrives on being goaded. And somehow he figured it out.

“ _Tsk_!” He scoffed. “Yeah-ah! You’re totally major league potential! You’ll be a great gimmick to sell seats. Like the dwarf that opened for the St. Louis browns!”

(She throws eight perfect shutout innings that day.)

“Working with you! _Pffth_!” He huffed. “It’s like being in a friggin’ circus. I’m too old to join the circus.”

(She only gives up one run in that game.)

“I’m pretty sure that you’ve invented the slowball. Maybe they should name it after you. Or maybe it’s the slowest fastball.” He nodded pensively. “We’ll call it ‘the Baker’.”

(Ginny’s fastballs stay above the eighties for that one.)

 

He _loves_ to instigate her but he’s extremely game focussed. He spends a lot of his time, just watching her practice. He attunes himself to her pitching style (which is a relief given that Stykie forced her to work as per his catching style.)   

And yet, for all his snide remarks, praise and encouragements are granted tenfold. It’s mostly unvoiced acknowledgement: fist-bumping, high-fiving, back-thumping, arm-knocking, handshakes, sidehugs. Sometimes he’ll mischievously smack her lower back, just above her ass and raise his eyebrow daring her to call him out on it.

Even, if he doesn’t patronize her in front of other teammates, Ginny notes that he never reprimands or corrects her in front of them either. He discerned her well-wishers from her detractors pretty quick. Even if his compliments are backhanded, his criticism is always constructive, and if given is only in private or in the presence of Blip.

On the days, she’s feeling low, there’s not a single taunt, sneer, or jibe that comes her way. It’s nothing put positivity and encouragement. He never permits her to dwell on a bad game. At worst, he’ll nag her. At best, he’ll come up with hilarious anecdotes, even ropes her in for team pranks to get her out of a mental slump.

And on the days, she does exceptionally well, she gets rewarded with dinner where he won’t let her pay a cent.

“I’ll never apologize for being a chauvinist pig.” He’ll say, swatting her hand when she reaches to split the cheque.

 

* * *

 

“What gym do you work out at?” He asks her one day.

When she tells him, he comes up with another question. “What time do you go?”

He promptly shows up at her gym the next day.

Even tries (fails miserably, but Ginny has to give him credit for trying) to keep up with her.

 

* * *

 

As the “I’m Next” campaign gains momentum, and her free time gets increasingly filled up with photoshoots, reporters start to hound him with questions about her.

As a habit, he’ll swiftly turn the interview around making it about himself.

 

Amelia asks her why he doesn’t openly endorse her if they’re friends. Especially when he’s still the most sought after player for the press.

Ginny can’t elucidate that he probably does it all the time.

Ginny knows he's protecting her.

(Because her other teammates resent her for it. Because some of them go a step further and criticize her openly. Because at the end of his interviews he’ll always add: “I refuse to comment on a teammate, especially one who works harder than me, steps up every single time, and delivers results.” )

 

* * *

 

Before long, she finds that she’s not the only camper at the Sander’s modest two-bedroom condo.

Ginny’s about as shocked to watch Mike help Evelyn with the cooking, about as shocked as he is to know that she’s a walking kitchen nightmare.

It’s on one of those dinners, when Evelyn asks him about Rachel Patrick.

 

(He never talks about his wife, she’s noticed from the start. It was weird for her at first, because Blip wouldn’t stop yapping about Evelyn when they first met.)

Rachel Patrick was gaining a reputation as a leading sports journalist. Amelia was trying hard to get Ginny an interview with her. Since Amelia was relatively clueless about the sports world, she was oblivious to the fact that Rachel’s husband was Ginny’s teammate, or else she’d be breathing down Mike’s throat.

Groupies chased Mike, all the time. And though, he had all the makings of a flirtatious playboy, Ginny was convinced that he was a faithful husband. He handled his groupies with his usual cocky charm, but he always maintained firm boundaries. He wouldn’t offend them but he never entertained their advances, either.

Ginny knew that Mike’s wife was a determined, career-focussed woman. And, she had no doubt he adored her. She would see his face light up when Rachel’s name pops up on his phone. Every weekend after road trips, he was flying off to LA to see her. It was something she appreciated. Given that a fair share of Ginny’s married colleagues who weren’t big on the sanctity of marital vows. Several lived by the philosophy of: ‘If it happened out on the road, it didn’t happen’; thereafter, coming home to their unsuspecting wives and girlfriends.  

“Her show got awarded ‘best new sports show’.” He beams with pride.

It changes his face in a way that make’s Ginny envious of Rachel Patrick.

 

* * *

 

One evening after practice he asks her if she’s in the mood for a small trek. Ginny finds it a perfect excuse to avoid meeting Amelia and the 'potential commercial sponsor', so she agrees.

He takes her out up on a small hill overlooking the ballpark, they make it at the top of the hill just as the sun starts to descend over the bay.

They sit side by side. Ginny just listens to him talk, finding herself in silent awe of the breathtaking view. He talks about his service apartment. He talks about the previous three games and how they need to plan a better defence for the games against the _Drillers._ He talks about his dealerships in LA and San Diego. He tells her he had a dog named Jedi that loved to chase after skunks.

They fall into a quiet silence after a while. She watches the sky turn in gradients from yellow, to orange to purple.

“How come you never talk about your wife?” She asks.

“I uh – I guess.” He shrugs. “It’s easier. To keep it separate. Work and family.”

“Oh.”

She doesn’t understand it. For some reason, she thinks of Blip and Evelyn. Then she thinks of her parents - how her mother never supported Baseball.

“Is that really possible?” She asks, without thinking. “I mean I don’t think Blip can do that. Evelyn controls so many things in his life. He’d fall apart without her.”

He chuckles. “Separate - for her, not for me.” He shrugs. “She doesn’t want to be some ballplayer’s wife who has her own show.”

“Yeah, but you’re Mike Lawson, not just _some_ ballplayer.”

He snorts.

“She doesn’t want special treatment.” Ginny speaks up, when he's silent. “I get that.”

“Yeah.” He sighs.

“Why Double-A?” She asks.

“I got into a fight.” He answers straight up. “Punched a guy in the face.”

“Seriously? You?” She coughs. “You’re Mr. Congeniality!"

He sniggers.

"Was it a player?” Ginny makes a doe-eyed face that usually gets her answers. “Was it a pitcher? Did he wave off your calls?”

His face bursts into a wide ear-to-ear grin, that makes his eyes go squinty and has an effect on Ginny’s lady parts. She looks away and thinks of Mom and Kevin. It helps her get over that tingly feeling of just being near him.

“He’s a prominent exec on the MLB network – that’s all I’ll say.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, the deal was I go back down for a season or else they’d charge me with ungentlemanly conduct.”

“I’m sorry.”

He grunts. “Yeah.”

“Did he deserve it?”

“He was…” Mike mumbles. “He was hitting on Rachel.”

Ginny turns around and looks at him.

“Yeah, I know it makes me a dick.” He chuckles.

“No…” She reaches her hand out, unwittingly and pulls his cheek. The skin above his beard is soft and doughy. She pulls her hand back and tucks it under her folded knees. “It just makes you a human.”

His smile fades, as does hers. They stare at each other until darkness settles over the bay like a curtain.

 

* * *

 

 

“Amazing.” He remarks, grumpily. “ _This_ is what it takes for you to cry?”

She ignores him, sobbing shamelessly.

“You promise me you’ll call okay?” Evelyn blubbers, hugging Ginny for dear life. “I will email you every second day.”

Ginny bursts into tears again.

“C’mon Gin! Don’t cry!” Blip’s teary eyed and emotional, too. “You knew this was coming.”

“Yeah, how awful.” Mike drones sarcastically. “I mean, he’s only being bumped up to Triple A. One step away from the bigs. Don’t be happy for him or anything.”

“But he’s leaving me!” Ginny explodes into a fresh bout of tears, releases Evelyn and latches on to Blip.

“Geez! Baker!” Mike scolds her. “Aren’t you being a little too dramatic?”

“But they’re my only friends.” She whines and starts sobbing again.

“Hello?” Mike sounds insulted.

She turns her head in his direction and pouts at him, still tucked into Blip’s chest. “You’re weird and you’re mean! It’s not the same.”

Evelyn and Blip chuckle between sniffles.

“I am the epitome of perfect amicability.” He announces.

“And you’re just so full of yourself.” She sniffles, letting Blip go and turning to the twins. They look distraught at her tears and already show signs of general weepiness. She sinks down to hug them and plasters their adorable four-year-old faces with kisses.

“Ugh! Get off them, Rookie. Let ‘em go!” He grabs the back of her t-shirt and pulls her back when she goes back to attack Marcus with more kisses. “Geez! Look at the amount of snot you make. You’re like a booger machine.”

The kids giggle but that makes Ginny weepy all the more.

She doesn’t care that it makes her look weak or wimpy or whatever. Lawson pulls her into his side and she buries her head in his shoulder and starts sobbing. His skin is so warm and feels like comforting envelop over her eyelids. And he smells so good. His body is like a wall. A nice warm, muscly, huggable wall. His entire arm covers the girth of her waist.

It feels so – nice. Ginny tries not to dwell on how much she likes being surrounded by him.

She forgives him for making fun of her.

Because, he’s a good hugger sure.

Also, because, he gets her tacos without cilantro for dinner and curly fries with cheese sauce. 

 

* * *

 

 

Her father was a catcher. Freaky observation are skills good catchers possess. She ought to have known that very little misses Lawson’s eye.

“Smooth.” He clucks his tongue and ‘ _tsks’_.

(She’s impressed with Trevor, really. So, what if she was playing in their ballpark. It was quite impressive that he was still interested after so many weeks of her ignoring his calls and texts. Enough to warrant an acknowledgement from her.)

She almost missed the _‘just one drink’_ when she dusted her hand. When she spotted it she couldn’t hold back her surprise, when she turned in the direction of the on-deck circle she couldn’t hold back her awed smile when she spotted Trevor waving at her with that confident look in his eyes, his perfect teeth gleaming for a perfect smile.

Doesn’t hold her back from striking him out.

Trevor tips his helmet at her when he’s walking back to the dugout, and she can’t help grinning. She picks up the bag, looking at his message, her face flushed with more than just the Arkansas heat.

And then Lawson marches over, the bag is out of her hand as quickly as it’s slapped back inside her palm. She returns his scoffing looks with some impudence of her own.

“It’s none of my business.” He mutters, chewing on his gum fiercely.

“Damn straight.” She returns.

“It’s a bad idea, Baker.” He rolls the gum around in his mouth.

“So was that call for a changeup,” She retorts. “But, you don’t see me runnin’ across to your box to find fault.”

There’s more concern in his eyes than annoyance. It surprises her. He shakes his head, spits unhappily and stalks back.

 

 

“You...are born...with _all_ of it.”

Now when a man as handsome and as fine as Trevor Davis looks into one’s eyes and says that, it’s pretty hard not to feel twenty level of fuzzies.

He’s funny, he’s a gentleman, makes her laugh like she hasn’t in years (barring Mike, sure), speaks with respect, makes her feel like she’s beautiful for some reason and she likes it.

She spotted Mike entering the bar earlier that night. Ginny felt a restless self-consciousness that wasn’t unusual. A lot of ballplayers give her that demeaning: “oh, she’s gonna sleep with him” vibe whenever she hangs out with any man, ballplayer or no ballplayer. It’s why she prefers to fraternize in a group rather than individually.

Lawson threw a lot of unhappy glances in the direction of her one-on-one dinner (because, it’s not a date - it’s not) with Trevor. She returned his glares when Trevor wasn’t looking, and he had the gall to glare back.

(Thing is, Lawson’s judgey looks never feel like chauvinism. He was burning a hole of skepticism and distrust into Davis’ oblivious spine – but his gaze would soften whenever he turned it to her.)

Ginny doesn’t welcome his protectiveness or whatever it is. She has enough ‘big brothers’ looking out for her as it is. Even gripes about it to Trevor.

Thankfully, Lawson disappears sometime during the night.

(Actually, Ginny knows exactly when. Some of her teammates entered the bar, and Ginny started fidgeting because she didn’t want them to know she was socializing with Trevor. Before they could see her, Lawson intercepted them, rounded them up and diverted them to another section of the bar.)

It’s a relief not to be subject to that soul-burrowing gaze. The ‘one drink’ becomes many and as she settles in, starts enjoying herself, and when she’s convinced of Trevor’s intentions to leave professional baseball, she lets him get the cheque.

After all, she’s a woman with needs. It’s high time she got them attended to.

 

 

Ginny moans, breaking off as her ass bumps against his truck. She lifts her pointer finger at him trying her level best to project seriousness through her arousal-heavy eyes.

“No one can know!” She warns. If she could stop grinning with the anticipation of finally – _finally_ getting over her dry spell with a man who has serious relationship potential, she’s sure she could pull off the grave importance of secrecy. (It’s impossible to think with his hands running over the butt-pocket of her jeans like that.)

“You swear?” She asks.

“Yeah.” Trevor promises quickly and leans in, and nods at her sincerely. “I swear!”

Ginny runs her hand over his hard chest, feeling the dampness build in her panties and heat of longing flaming through her belly.

For some inexplicable reason, she thinks of Lawson – his bewitching hazel eyes, the tints of blue-grey and green that halo his pupils.

_It’s a bad idea, Baker._

(How strong and sturdy he feels whenever she hugs him. Trevor is lean and huggable too, but not in a Lawson-way. His hands are big – but they don’t feel all-encompassing and as steady as Mike’s.)

“Specially players.” She insists, feeling a panic rise in her chest, her smile feeling less sexy and more apprehensive.

“Okay! I swear!” Trevor hurries, giving her an eager, assuring smile, kissing her hungrily. Ginny whines as she rubs his chest, pushing her breasts up against him as his hands roam over her waist. He pulls away to go open the door, but she pulls him, pouring all the desire, and Freudian whatchamacallits into another frantic make out session.

The sound of a blaring horn makes her shriek and jump away.

_Fuck._

(Honestly, that beard just makes him look like a disapproving hillbilly with a stick up his ass.)

She presumes the brand new black Ford 150 that was parked behind her truck is is. (It has to be. It also explained why he hadn’t joined them on the bus to Arkansas). Seeing as the door is open, and he’s standing next to it, one leg planted on the ground the other leg inside the truck and hand on the steering wheel. His eyebrows are pulled together, his forehead is all wrinkles and his eyes are - ( _Hmm._ She can’t make out much in the dark. Also, she can’t see what his mouth is doing under that godawful beard but-) she’s pretty certain the overall facial expression constitutes a scowl.

“What?” She barks at him, feeling guilty and defensive at the same time (why though?)

“You’re blocking me.” He bites out. And, Ginny who knows him so well, picks up the lurking fury in his tone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys, don't mind I'm adding chapters, now that I've figured out how to work around the Baseball

Thank goodness for the sex.

Ginny was irritated over the weekend.

She _ought_ to have had more fun with Trevor. She _ought_ to have seized the day, enjoyed the newness of feeling the fuzzies, savored the feeling of being desired and and worshipped.

But no. Didn't happen.

It wasn’t Trevor. Nope, no – Trevor was a sweetheart. She likes Trevor, he likes her. It may be too soon to define the relationship and all, but she’s _pretty_ sure he’s boyfriend material.

It was Lawson. The look on his face. The firm set of his beard covered jaw, that murderous look in his eyes – it was just...

_It was just -!_

Why the image of that unpleasant expression on his hairy face had burned itself into her mind, she couldn’t fathom. It was – inconvenient to her peace of mind. It was just -  _there,_  a hindrance to all the lovies.

Really, thank goodness for the sex.

(So, maybe there was that one- or maybe more than one moment when she imagined what it might be like to have Lawson’s thick body over hers, but it was just a thought. Nothing more. Residual musings from her teenage - probably. An errant, senseless, frivolous thing. Neurons firing foolishly in her brain. An idea canned as quickly as it presented itself.)

 _It’s ridiculous,_ she tells herself. _You shouldn’t care so much about Mike Lawson._

On some level, she hopes it’s petty jealousy. Petty jealousy was annoying at best and disappointing at worst. What Ginny feared was – _what? What?_

Whatever it is, she’s not going to let it ruin her mood. Whatever’s gonna come – she’s gonna face it.

She likes Trevor Davis. She wants to be in a secret-for-now relationship with Trevor Davis.

And, she’s not going to apologize for it.

No sir.

_Endure, endure, endure._

 

Ginny braces for it.

Everything. The teasing, the jibes and the catcalls when she enters the locker room that morning. Maybe the guys would be mocking her code. Maybe they’d put up a banner or two, cover her locker with condoms or something crass.

_Endure, endure, endure, right? That’s what Pop said._

 

There’s nothing.

It’s like any other practice day.

Ginny hesitantly opens her locker and finds nothing offensive in it.

She heads out to practice and Lawson’s chatting and joking with Bellman and Walker. She braces for the weirdness.

Nothing.

He smirks at her. She wonders if she’s imagining that his smile seems edgier and that his eyes seem harsher. He quickly does his stretches and gestures at her to join him.

She takes five laps around the park with him. He talks to her about his trip to LA over the weekend, tells her something funny that happened with Rachel. 

( _He probably got laid_ , she reckons, _maybe that’s why he’s so friggin’ jolly._ That’s a good thing, right? Why is she irritated that a married man had conjugal relations with his wife? What business does Ginny have to feel vexation!)

He talks about ESPYs he attended with Rachel.

(Ginny actively tries not think about what a nice, camera friendly couple him and Rachel made with all their ‘made-for-each-other’ vibes and what not.)

He gives her a lecture on the upcoming exhibition games with the parent team in Peoria. He talks to her about every hitter and what to expect from them, even divulges their weaknesses. He even tells her about bumping into Buster Posey who as it turned out had heard a lot about her and was enquiring about her.

And Ginny would have been thrilled and flattered, but she felt trapped in a quagmire of apprehension and doubt.

Because, Ginny knew him well – maybe too well.

There was no doubt he was _trying_ to be cordial. His chattiness seemed forced. There was an absence of the usual affection and gentleness every time she encountered those hazel eyes.

But, she didn’t call him out on it.

They move on to the bullpen. She pitches, he catches. He calls, she throws. They practice plays with the team. When she’s at the batting cages, he observes her quietly and gives her pointers on her swing.

“How’d you get back?” He asks, when she does her post-game stretches.

“Trevor drove me.” She answers reluctantly.

“He still in town?” He asks, showing no reaction on his face.

She almost retorts defensively but there’s no malice in his eyes.

“Er,” she shrugs. “No – he drove back.”

“You got any plans for the evening?” He asks.  “I was thinking we could watch a movie at my place if you’re free.”

She frowns at him.

He pulls his lips apart and gives her that hangdog expression, lifting his palms. “Or not.”

“You’re being nice.” She accuses.

“I’m always nice.”

“No, you’re always grumpy.” She insists.

Apparently, that’s cue for him to go grumpy.

“Okay! Movie’s off the table!” He replies. “You had your chance and you blew it. I’ve been told I make the best popcorn on the West Coast and now, you’re not gettin’ any of that either.”

Ginny rubs her eyebrows and then decides it’s time to rip the bandaid. “Aren’t you gonna…?” She starts.

“What?”

“Tell the others?” She bites the inside of her mouth.

“Tell ‘em what? That you don’t want the best popcorn on the…!”

“About me and - !” She jumps in. She glances around and drops her voice. “And Trevor.”

“You want _me_ to tell them?” He asks, making a face. “Do I look like a den mom, Baker? I don’t do those talks.”

(He looks like a cousin from Duck-Dynasty but they’re not quite at that level of friendship where she can tell him that with the guarantee of not getting strangled by those massive catcher paws.)

“No!” She groans. “I – I don’t want anyone to know.”

“Then, why d’you bring it up?”

She peers at his face for signs of mischievousness. “Really?” She says.

“Really, what?”

“You won’t snitch on me.”

“Snitch on you?” He snorts. “Do I look like a snitch?”

(Again – she almost tells him about the Duck Dynasty cousin likeness - but again, not there yet.)

“Aren’t you worried I’m gonna sell our secrets or somethin’?” She lifts her eyes haughtily and bats her eyelashes, imitating a fifties movie vamp.

He looks her squarely in the eye with a blank, unreadable expression for a few seconds. Then, that wall or whatever it was she’d been perceiving is gone. His eyes twinkle, irises turn azure green - reflecting the grass. He’s amused

“Secrets?” He grunts. “Newsflash, Baker! We don’t have any. Everyone knows DC’s swing is slower than yours!”

“Why?”

“Why?” He shrugs, his face falling flat. “I dunno, maybe ‘cause he’s swings like a girl.” A slow baiting smile spreads across his face, daring her to flame him on the ‘like a girl’ shit.

Ginny almost bites. “No, I meant, why won’t you tell them?” She sighs.

“Because, it’s nobody’s business but yours.” He says, sounding all matter-of-fact.

“Yeah, but – I have a code. Everyone knows it.”

He rolls his eyes as though he never took her code seriously in the first place. “So?”

“So the guys…they…y’know. They kind of – they’ll talk.”

“Rookie!” He says. “I know you like to think that it’s all ‘bout you…. but it’s not. In fact, if it’s about anyone…” he grins, and sticks a thumb at himself, “it’s about me.”

There. All that stress over the weekend, all for nothing. It washes out like a massive flood. Ginny’s shoulders sag and her body feels lighter.

“It won’t come in the way of the games or anything.” She promises. “There won’t be a conflict of interest.”

“Did I say anything?”

 _(He’s not like the others,_ her ‘self’ points out, then. _And that - is why his opinion matters.)_

She twists her mouth and looks at her cleats. “I’m always a hundred percent when I play, Lawson.” She asserts.

He doesn’t speak. She looks up and he has a bored expression.

“Did I ask?” He repeats.

“He’s planning to leave baseball.” She spills.

(Why explain, though? He doesn’t even seem remotely interested in her defence.

Maybe it’s because of the look he gave her back in Arkansas. Maybe it’s because she cares about his opinion – as a friend first, as a ballplayer second. Maybe it’s because a perverse, irrational part of her welcomes his protectiveness.)

Lawson’s eyes widen. Ginny can see disbelief in them. “Huh.” He snorts, scepticism oozing from his tone.

“I mean – he’s planning to go to college.” Ginny rambles. “After the playoffs are done. He won’t be a ballplayer for much longer.”

He shrugs. “So?”

“Don’t you want to say something?”

He sighs.

“Say it!”

“If I do…” He scratches his beard. “You’ll start the whole Orphan Annie speech.” He complains. “C’mon Baker! That one is worse than the ‘why cilantro is evil’ speech!”

She crosses her arms.

He sighs and then relents. “Fine. For the record: I know it’s none of my business! I don’t plan on making it any of my business! So, you don’t get to throw _that_ at me once I say my piece.”

“Okay.”

“Some guys…” He starts and then shakes his head.  “Okay, maybe all of them - would say or do anything to get a girl in bed. I know I would.” He shrugs. “I mean, if I wasn’t married, that is. I mean – not with you. Not that you aren’t very…” he clears his throat nervously and glances away. “…desirable, but we’re teammates and I don’t go there with teammates. I mean, DiCaprio was pretty tasty, those beautiful eyes ‘n all – but still!” He snorts. “I kept my shit together.”

Ginny rolls her eyes.

“See -!” He sticks his index at her. “I know that look. You are about to start the Orphan Annie speech!”

She was, but she isn’t going to give him the pleasure of knowing that he can read her so well. She twists her mouth and looks down at the grass.

“I believe him.” She states.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Ginny glances up.

The look on his face – for some reason, _that_ offends Ginny deeply. He looks like he wants to throw his head back and chug out a mocking laugh. It means he thinks she’s being naïve and stupid; being taken for a ride.

He doesn’t trust her judgment.

But, the sneering words don’t come. His face changes, like he senses that she can detect his line of thought. He clears his throat, rubs his face and scratches his beard.

“Ginny.” His voice sounds blank. His face becomes tense, he looks at her warily.

_Ginny?_

“Mike.” She says with a small nod. She gives him the permission, in the manner in which she says his name...and nods, she gives him the freedom to inquire.

“Just be careful, please?” He says, in a soft voice. “I’m sure he’s great it’s just….”

“I know what I’m doing.” She insists.

He nods at her, but he doesn’t look convinced.

 

* * *

 

 

For once in her life Ginny’s happy. (Which, when considering her history with ‘happiness’ isn’t a good thing. The last time she was this happy, a drunk driver veered into Pop’s truck and she lost her father.  _But let’s not go there._ )

She has a boyfriend who respects her need for discretion. She has a great male friend who makes life easier in so many ways on and off the field. (Sure, her agent is a pain in the ass, but you can’t have everything perfect, right?).

It feels _nice_ – to be supported.

 

Not that things aren’t difficult. Juggling a secret love life with her schedule is as hard as it can be.

Time is a major constraint. Her relationship with Trevor is for the most part heart to hearts on the phone and the occasional _Skype_ sex. They speak twice a day and as exhilarating as it is, it’s tough to coordinate time zones. Trevor tries to visit her as often as he can for personal trysts, which usually ends up in frantic but satisfying sex with very little time left for conversation. It’s not even like she can sneak into backalleys to steal a kiss every time. If they try to go out, they have to keep a platonic distance, limit all the PDA.

Even if Mike’s mouth lips are sealed, she knows there’s no a guarantee that this won’t get leaked. Amelia’s strategy for Ginny to become an icon was working. She’s almost always followed by either fans or reporters. Her teammates sometimes linger because they want to get noticed along with her.

Ginny is skeptical about the whole ‘being an icon’ thing. She doesn’t think she has any business wanting to be the face for the cause of mixed-gender sport. Even in Tarboro she was treated like a circus act. But back then, she had Pop to keep her head in the game.

Now, it’s not that easy. Her publicity campaign gains momentum at a breakneck speed. Reporters are shadowing her. The stadiums are sold out on the days of her starts.

“Men don’t do anything until they’re nagged into it.” Amelia declares when Ginny asks her to tone it down. “You’ll never get the attention of the major leagues unless they’re forced to look at you!”

 

When Ginny complains about it to Trevor, he flashes his magical smile.

“There’s nothin’ wrong in owning it, Ginny.” He says. “You’re exceptional. Ride that wave. If you were a man you wouldn’t have thought twice if it got to you to the bigs faster, right?”

It’s supposed to comfort her that he believes in her so much; that he’s secure of himself and unabashed to express his criticism of double standards.

It’s _supposed_ to feel good.

Except, Ginny feels like a fraud. She can’t help him understand why she feels that way because she can’t explain it.

All she knows is the frequency with which she wakes up from the same nightmare (the accident) over and over again is increasing.

 

It happens on the bus, one night.  

One minute Ginny’s falling asleep with music blaring in her ear, leaning her head against the window. The next minute, she’s in the car with Pop.

_“The San Diego Padres!”_

_She openly pleads to see the approval he keeps so carefully guarded under his stern exterior.  She knows why he is so harsh. It's to protect her. To not let her achievements get to her head. To keep her grounded and realistic._

_Biology and what not._

_“Yup.” He answers,  glancing at her. Ginny can see a pleasant emotion in his eyes. It encourages her._

_“…The majors!” She can’t stop grinning._

_“The Minors.” He points out._

_“We did it, Pop!” She gushes._

_She expects the: ‘We ain’t done nothin’ yet.’ But, golly! It doesn’t come._

_She feels excitement pull at her cheeks, her grin widens._ _“Pop! C’mon…!” She insists, hoping to see that rarest of rare grins that he reserves for the special-est of moments._

_He turns his head to her. He looks like he’s gonna smile._

_And then a blinding light comes for nowhere. Her world spins. She lurches._

 

“Pop!” Ginny’s eyes fly open, tears streaming down her face, her chest feels tight, her lungs feel too small for the large gulp of air she's swallowing in.

“Hey! Hey!” A gentle, kind voice shushes from beyond the rhythm pounding into her eardrums. One warm sturdy arm slips around her shoulders, the other one extricates the phone from her grip. The earphones come off, her world is plunged into a relatively quiet world where there's a faint whirring sound of an engine. 

Mike places her phone on his lap and pulls her closer. Ginny gasps softly, forcing air into her lungs, willing them to work normally. She covers her eyes with the heel of her palm. She wipes the cold sweat off her forehead and her breathing slows. When she feels his large hand patting the vertex of her head she also registers that the bus is still in motion. She looks around, sees that everyone is fast asleep and there’s not even a reading light on.

She turns to Mike but she cannot see him in the darkness. She’s unable to make sense of his face. His gentle strength emanates in the space between them.

“It’s okay, Baker.” He soothes in a hushed voice. “You’re fine. It was…just a bad dream I think.”

“Sorry.” She whispers, wiping her cheek. “Did I scare you?”

“I don’t scare easy.” He gloats.

“Sure, you don’t.” Ginny mutters adjusting herself, looking out the window.

“Who’s Pop?”

“What?” She jerks her head back to him. “Was I…” She shakes her head. “Was I calling out for him?”

She can make out a headnod. Ginny exhales and slumps back. She doesn’t know if she should throw off his arm. It feels easier just to sink in. She twists in the seat so she can lean the back of her head against his shoulder whilst looking out at the road. She pulls her feet up propping them diagonally over the seat in front of her. Between Mike’s strong frame and the wall of the bus, she’s fixed in place.

She pretends he isn’t married, pretends she doesn’t have a boyfriend; pretends this intimacy is appropriate for friends; pretends that if it were Blip in his place, she would feel that same magnetic pull to turn her body and snuggle into him.

“Pop’s – your Dad?” He asks. His breath tickles her hair and his hand curls over her shoulder.

“Yeah.” She whispers. “He uh – he died in an accident. Sometimes I dream ‘bout him.”

_I lived, he died._

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, so am I.” She waves her hand about and reaches for the phone in his lap. She taps the screen, hits the stop button on the music player.

“This isn’t the first time you called for him.” He murmurs.

He would know. He is her seat companion on all the road trips after all. More often than once she’s been awoken by an angry shrug of his shoulder and a reprimand for drooling over his favourite shirt (which are as it turns out, are all of them).

When she doesn’t speak, he pets her hair again. “You’re not really a sleeptalker otherwise, Rookie.” He whispers. “But when you’ve had a bad game, you sure apologize to him in your sleep. A lot.”

_(“I’m sorry, Pop.”  She would say._

_“Don’t let it happen again.” He would answer.)_

“Today you had a good game, Baker.” Mike continues. “There’s no reason for you to be stressed out. You won it for us, today.”

As encouraging as he is, Mike seldom praises her performance directly. It seems strange for him to say it in plain words without some jibe or punchline to follow.

_(“We did it, Pop!”_

_“We ain’t done nothin’ yet.”)_

“…so what’s up?” Mike prods, oblivious to her memories. “What’s bothering you?”

Ginny sighs and leans back some more. There’s something soothing about the amber lights flashing by, something more soothing about her back cocooned into his side.

“Amelia wants me to do a spread for _Sports Illustrated_.” She tells him.

“The swimsuit edition?”

Ginny wants to giggle at the playfulness in his tone. “Yes.” She answers. 

Her body moves passively as he lets out a loud raspy sigh.

She starts playing with her phone, alternating between home screen and the open apps. She taps the gallery open and looks at a picture she took of Trevor sleeping. He was flopped on his belly, naked except for the sheet that barely covered his fine ass, head facing her camera, a peaceful smile on his face. His gorgeous chocolate skin glows from the filtering sunlight.

She doesn’t care if Mike peeks over her head and sees the phone.

 _Trevor is my boyfriend._ (Not the man, who’s holding her in a comforting half-embrace, whose body feels just _right_ against hers.)

She deliberately thinks of Rachel Patrick, hoping that it will jolt her into pulling away as it usually does when things start to feel a little too cozy between her and Mike. It doesn't work.

She knows Mike sees the picture, because the next thing he says is, “What does Davis say?”

She wonders why he doesn’t pull away. Maybe because he’s secure about his love for his wife. Maybe because he doesn’t feel more than a platonic affection for her. Ginny knows the attraction is more on her part. It’s compounded by a growing admiration for him as a player, independent of her childhood adulation.

“He says that a guy in my place wouldn’t think twice. Publicity like that is good publicity.” She whispers. “That – a guy wouldn’t shy away from displaying his physique because it’s empowering and not objectification. And, women should also be seen the same way.” She sighs.

The mocking noise Mike makes tells Ginny everything about what he thinks of Trevor’s opinion.

(At least that should have her straighten up in indignation – but it doesn’t. His presence, his warmth – it’s just too damn comfy.)

Ginny sighs and rubs her eyes.

“I mean, it is _Sports Illustrated.”_ She defends. “Most of the other pitchers my age – they’re already in Triple A. Some are already starting out their rookie year in the bigs. Amelia says that if more people are curious about me it might help me – get noticed faster. People, may not dismiss me without taking a closer look.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“And they’re not like going to sexify me or anything.” Ginny flips towards the pictures of the bathing suits that Amelia had picked out for her. Other models were wearing them so Ginny could get an idea of how they would look. “Amelia knows a great photographer – I saw the some of his work. Very…tasteful.”

Mike doesn’t answer for a long time. He's so quiet that Ginny wonders if he dozed off. But, he shifts a little every now and then. Ginny knows he does that when his knees start troubling him. Prolonged seating in cooped up position like this – that’s a strain on his knees. She considers sitting up in her seat, giving him some room – but…

She doesn’t want to. His shoulder makes a nice, hard pillow for the back of her head and she wants to cling to this warmth, just a little longer.

“And what do you think?” He asks, finally.

“I think it’s a bad idea. These guys...they don’t take me seriously as it is…it might make it worse.” She says. “I’m not saying I’ll never do a swimsuit edition or anything – I just, don’t think it’s the right time.”

“Sounds like you already have your answer, then.”

She sighs. “And what do you think, Captain?” She asks.

“Like you care.”

“Humour me.”

“Well…” He sounds jovial. “You can’t rock a bathing suit like I do, Rookie.”

Ginny sniggers, flipping through the pictures absentmindedly and then turning off the screenlight. She groans and sits up – missing his warmth as soon as they disconnect. They both readjust in their seats. Mike is a little more vocal in his movements and Ginny feels sorry for his knees.

“A baseball uniform can be just as glamorous as a bathing suit.” He whispers. Ginny looks at him. She can make the outline of his face – he’s looking at the seat in front of him. “Especially…” He adds. “If it's on the right person.”

She purses her smile. So, what if he can’t see it in the dark. He knows her so well, she’ll bet he can _feel_ her smile. His head moves towards her. Ginny can _feel_ him grin, too. And it makes her want to squeeze her fist.  Her thumb inadvertently jabs the button on her phone.

The glow of the phone illuminates his face and sure enough, he is grinning. His eyes divert to her phone and his smile falls instantly, his eyes widen. A sharp gasp comes from him. She looks down and –

_Oh fuck._

She wishes her seat had an eject button so she could jab it and parachute out.

There on the screen is a picture of her, stark naked, kneeling on the bed, grinning wide making ‘come hither’ eyes (intended for Trevor), one hand covering her ladyparts and the other one outstretched to take the selfie, her boobs on full display.

She fumbles with the phone and tucks it away.

Ginny can’t bring herself to look at him. She’s pretty sure that loud huff he lets out was an exhale of a breath held all this while. She can feel him shift in the seat – inching away from her, clearing his throat.

Ginny doesn’t know whether to laugh or to cringe.

 

* * *

 

 

The weirdness lasts for a day. Ginny gives him a wide berth because she knows expecting him to be normal is not only unfair, it’s also hypocritical. She tanked a game after seeing him naked in person. So, who is she to judge?

A series of hectic games and they’re back to a new normal. He touches her less, movie night doesn’t happen quite as frequently, but Ginny thinks it’s really in both their interests that they keep a fair distance. Besides they’re killing it at the games.

The _Travelers_ make the playoffs. Trevor starts insisting on them spending more time together in public, now that his baseball career was coming to an end. Ginny resists. They even have their first lover’s spat about it. The makeup sex was great, though.

 

Mike wins the popular vote and makes it to the final roster of the All-Star game. He invites Ginny to come watch along with another couple of teammates. He even gets a ticket for Trevor in case he is interested. Ginny accepts gleefully.

“ _Wait, Gin_!” Trevor protests when she tells him. _“I was plannin’ to take you home for the break.”_

“Home?”

_“Yeah to meet my parents.”_

“Meet your parents!” Ginny exclaims. “Trevor! I told you I wanted to keep things quiet.”

_“Well, I haven’t told ‘em anything, yet. I was hopin’ you’d make an exception…just this once?”_

“But, it’s the All-Star game! We’ve got seats in the Champion Box! C’mon Trevor! Mike’s gonna play!”

“ _Ginny_!” Trevor sounds irked. _“He’s been made it to the last four All Star games! It’s no big deal! Can’t you just choose me over him – just this once?_ ”

 “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

_“Just that you’re sooner ready to kiss him in public than me.”_

“Okay, okay.” Ginny huffs, feeling the hair at the back of her neck rise. “Back up! What’s going on?”

_“Ginny, you spend all your time with him. Even off field, you two are always hanging out together. And when we’re talking on the phone – he’s all you wanna talk about. It’s like I don’t even exist for you. DC tells me that you’re like – his work wife or something.”_

“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

_“Woah -woah woah! Hold on. I said work wife. That’s not the same as a real wife or a girlfriend. That’s like a good thing – Gin. It’s just – it kinda makes me feel neglected, baby. And I hate to admit this – but I’m jealous of the time the guy gets to spend with you.”_

Ginny chews her lower lip. So far, she was under the assumptions that none of the teammates had any misconceptions about her and Mike. But, it was true – she did spend most of her free time with him. In fact, she realizes guiltily, she even prefers spending time with Mike over Trevor. Barring the sex and the occasional laugh, Trevor paled in comparison to the intellectual and emotional comfort Mike brought her.

But – Mike had a wife. A real wife. A wife he loved very much.

(“Rachel’s excited to meet you.” Mike had said, after told her that he was looking forward to seeing Rachel at Minneapolis during the All Star week. Ginny’s heart always felt a little arrhythmic whenever she saw that look of unguarded admiration on his face whenever he mentioned Rachel.)

And she had a boyfriend. And, Trevor was a great guy. And she was being a little unfair if she didn’t contribute to her end of the relationship.

“Trevor, I’m not ready to meet your parents.” She tells him. “But, if you’re up for it – I’d love you to come over during the break. I was thinkin’ maybe we could play some golf.”

“I don’t play golf.”

“I’ll teach you.”

 

* * *

 

 

“They were married?” She exclaims.

Mike started advising her with cautionary tales of his pre-Rachel days after Ginny told him why she wouldn’t make it to Minnesota and that she needed the time the All Star break afforded for Trevor and her to get some alone time in San Antonio without getting photographed.

They were picking out apples for Mrs. Brown when he told her about a threesome he had with two married women.

(She still runs errands for Mrs. Brown, even if she doesn’t live on the same street anymore. In fact, she does it for free.

Nowadays, going to the supermarket like a normal person has become an impossible task.  Ginny has a nagging doubt that Amelia deliberately slipped it to the reporters so that they could be impressed, and project her as a saint. 

When she bitched about it to Mike, he suggested a niche farmer’s market they could scout out where it was unlikely anyone would recognize her and he could get his groceries as well.)

He shushes her glancing around to see if anyone heard. “For the record –” He hisses. “I thought they were married to _each other_ – and y’know wanting to mix things up a bit.” He points to the apples she needs to pick. “Turns out they were married to other men.” He mutters.

“That’s the most disrespectful…”

“Hey! I loved women! Still do!” He declares. “I loved ‘em so much, I’d sleep with two at a time.” He shrugs. “But that’s my limit. I tried a full-fledged orgy once,” he gets that adorable faraway look, “it was really confusing.”

“So, what happened?”

“One of the husbands found out.” He makes a sheepish face.

“Which one?”

“Does it matter?” He says. “And, there’s another one – there was this other barely legal groupie whose Dad worked at Petco…”

“Ugh!” Ginny smacks his elbow to get him to stop with the gross sex stories.

Thankfully he does.

She fetches the apples and dumps them into the basket. “Not those! They’re garbage!” He smacks her hand, pulls out a couple of apples and sets them aside. (Ginny can’t tell why. They looked pretty okay to her.)

“My point is…Secrets,” He emphasizes, as they move to the guy who sells artisan flour, “seldom stay under the carpet too long.”

“What if the carpet’s as thick as your beard?” She trolls.

He gives her a fake grin, nodding at her as if to say: ‘I’m gonna let that one slide. For now’.

“Even so.” He shrugs. “It’s a matter of time, Baker.”

Ginny blows a raspberry and shakes her head, she rolls her shoulders out to relieve that nagging feeling of him being correct.

There’s way too many flour options. Since, Mrs. Brown just mentioned ‘flour’ Ginny left the decision making to him. But he checks with her, anyway – because he’s sweet and Ginny finds that bizarrely problematic. “She prefer gluten free?” He asks.

“I don’t think Mrs. Brown knows what gluten is.” Ginny replies.

“All purpose or self-raising?”

He’s far too proficient in his knowledge of flour. When he spots the horrified look on Ginny’s face, he rolls his eyes. “Never mind.” He picks one of the fancy bags for Mrs. Brown and three for himself. “What’s next?”

“Cinnamon, eggs and sugar.”

He dumps the shopping basket in her hand and leads her to the eggs person. “I guess it’s pointless to ask you what sort of eggs she’d prefer?”

“There’s types of eggs?” Ginny grimaces.

He lets out a chortling sound that makes Ginny happy. “Free range, it is then.” He says, between sniggers.

“He says he's leaving after the playoffs.” She says. “Even if it gets out – it’ll be fine.” She nods.  _It’ll be fine,_ she reiterates inwardly.

Mike nods but doesn’t say anything.

A lot of young boys stop Mike. Ginny looks on with fondness when he signs autographs or takes selfies with a gracious smile. Two girls recognize her and ask for a picture. Mike takes it for them with a wider knowing smile.

“It’s a matter of time.” He says, as they move along, the basket getting heavier as they tackle Mrs. Brown's list.

“What is?”

“It’s a matter of time before you’ll be the most famous woman in America, Baker.” He says and then cringes dramatically. “You’ll be on every channel, dragged into every discussion – on everything. From women’s rights to MLB’s inclusion policies. It sounds prettier than it is.”

Ginny mulls it over for a few minutes. “I like him, Mike.” She admits. “A lot. Maybe – I’m sort of in love, with him.”

He stops walking, turns around and stares at her with an unreadable look.

“And.” She sighs. “I don’t want to sound like a broken record telling you how much tougher it is for women. For some reason, relationships with men define women. Whether they’re married or not, whether they’re seeing some or not. Whether their personal life affects their playing or not. Men don’t face that. And – I’m trying very hard to stay away from all the labelling and categorization but…” Ginny closes her eyes. “Trevor gets me! He gets this life! It’s rare to find someone who I relate to – and someone who relates to me.”

When she opens her eyes, Mike is looking at her with a hardened face and that dark expression in his eyes. She’s terrified what it means. She’s terrified that she’s confiding her deepest fears to someone who isn’t herself.

“Baker.” He clears his throat. “I’m happy for you – I am. Okay?”

She nods.

“I want you to hear this from me – not as a well-wisher or as some big dumb overprotective jock friend of yours. I want you to hear it from me as someone who’s seen a lot more of this life than you. When _you_ – of all people - make it to the majors, your secrets won’t be allowed to be secrets. The same applies for people around you.”  

Ginny sticks her lower jaw out, hissing through her teeth. It’s one thing to hear about the pros and _cons_ of fame from Amelia, it’s another thing to hear it from him. It impacts her more.

“I just want to be a regular ballplayer.” She says.

He clicks his tongue with sympathetic expression. “You are a ballplayer, Rookie. Nothing’s gonna take that away from you. But – you’re never gonna be a regular ballplayer. If –” He suddenly shakes his head. “rather, _when_ – you make it to the majors – you’re gonna be the biggest story in Baseball – maybe even the world.”

_When – you make it to the majors. Not ‘if’._

Ginny doesn’t know at what point Mike Lawson stopped being an icon on her wall to her dearest friend. But, hearing that from him awakes in her something raw and jubilant. 

 _We ain’t done nothin’ yet,_ Pop’s voice echoes inside her, counterbalancing the surge of hope and confidence Mike evoked.

Ginny swallows hard, her eyes feel wet as she thinks of her Dad.

“Is that what you’re worried about?” Ginny asks Mike as he starts walking in the direction of someone giving out chilli samples. “You think he doesn’t know how,” she makes air quotes, “‘ _popular_ ’ I’m gonna be?”

“Popular!” Mike harrumphs. “Who said you’re gonna be popular?” He grimaces.

Ginny rolls her eyes.

“You can still be the biggest story in baseball when you freeze up on your first start.” He says in a wry voice, but that silly grin starts to play over his features.

“I’m not gonna freeze.” She declares.

“Or flit back daintily to the dugout because you chipped your nail polish or somethin’.”

She smacks his burly arm forcefully.

“Doesn’t make you popular. _Pssht!_ ” He shoves her shoulder.

“Don’t worry superstar, you’ll always be the more popular one.” Ginny rebounds and shoves his shoulder.

“Damn fuckin’ straight.” He gloats, pulling her ponytail. “I’m a regular fuckin’ Zack Morris from _Saved by the Bell_.”

 _Hmm_ , Ginny thinks eyeing the beard and imagining the face underneath as she remembered it. _Maybe he has a point there._

She wiggles her fingertips on his side, where he’s most ticklish, he doubles over giggling.  “Woah! Timeout! Now you’re just fightin’ like a girl!”

“No! I’m winnin’ like a girl!” She giggles and tries to tickling him again.

He elbows her off, guffawing. She stops when he points out that she’s going to drop the groceries.

“I think he can handle it.” Ginny says on a serious note after they’re done kidding around. “I don't think he thinks about it, y'know? How big it’s gonna be, if I’m ever – you know –” ( _Famous._ The word she doesn’t want to say.)

Mikes face sobers up. He gives her that worried look. “That’s what bothers me, Baker.” He says. “I’m afraid he does think about it. ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So - next chapter's gonna get a wee bit weepy. I just wanted more friend time with these two in this one.  
> Let me know what you thought about this one.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys.  
> Firstly, thank you for all the encouraging reviews. I'm sorry I didn't reply individually but I figured I'd thank you with a chapter update.  
> Before y'all call me out on my poor chapter count planning (yes I upped it again)...lemme explain.  
> Since there's no word of renewal and there's talk of chances of renewal dwindling I've been very dejected.  
> I don't know if Mike and Ginny will see a future in canon because of Fox and their sheer stupidity. I do know what I can do in fanfiction. I can write my own version of them.So I'm doing it.  
> I started writing this chapter all angsty and fighty with oodles of ST, but this isn't a ratings dependent episode, rather it's fanfiction and I need these two to be that couple that's there for each other, because is 110 left me annoyed. I know Ginny sounds mature for a twenty one year old in this one but let's just remember that Ginsanity hasn't exploded yet and she has Mike as a ginuwine friend.  
> And I will greatly appreciate your reviews on this chapter.

“Okay.” His voice cuts through.

Ginny sits up. She realizes that she’s been hunched over the window, her chin buttressed on her elbow, watching the road.

She can’t remember when she got in to the car, when he keyed the ignition, when they hit the road.

She looks across at the man in the driver’s seat frowning at her and she frowns back.

“Do I go first or do you?” He asks.

 

* * *

 

She and Trevor spent the entire week together. Making love, cuddling, kissing, horsing around, playing golf, eating great food, walks by the San Antonio bay. They argued over silly things like cilantro and politics. They had a civil, very grownup conversation about their future; about Ginny’s future in baseball and Trevor’s plans for college. He kept talking about making their relationship public now that he had only a month left as a player, to which Ginny reluctantly agreed.  

But when they weren’t doing any of those things, Ginny wanted to watch the All-Star game highlights on TV and that seemed to frustrate Trevor. Whenever she texted Mike he seemed peeved. When she told him that it was Mike’s car that she was driving to drop him off at the airport, he just turned quiet and sulky.

(If it had been jealousy or possessiveness, the negative vibes he threw would be justifiable but…there was more to _it_. And Ginny couldn’t deduce exactly what ‘it’ was.)

“You do know he’s here to vet you right?” Trevor had said.

It was random, completely unprecedented, and unprovoked. In fact, Ginny was yapping about driving down for his upcoming game in Oklahoma when he said it.

“Who?”

“Mike Lawson.”

“Vet me?”

Then, he gave her that triumphant close-lipped lopsided smirk.

(There were few things about Trevor that irritated her and that was one of them. It was as though he had an inkling about something that she was naïve about, and it gave him a sense of self-importance.

But vexations and peeves were the oddities that made relationships real, right?

Interestingly, there were several things about Mike that infuriated her, but none of them ever left her with that bitter taste she felt in response to Trevor’s oddities.)

“Gin, he’s been sent to watch you.” Trevor said with a know-it-all tone that matched his irksome smile. “To see if you are good enough for the majors. And I don’t mean your game, hon, I mean whether you’ve got the mental _cojones_ to face it. Aren’t you at all curious why Mike Lawson’s so friendly with you? He’s judging you, Ginny.”

(She knew Trevor wasn’t fibbing. His insinuation was no surprise, either. Reporters had been asking her questions along the same lines for a few weeks now. Even Amelia had alluded to it.

And everyone expected Ginny to be bothered by it. She couldn’t fathom why.

Though, if Trevor knew – it meant the rumours had weight. There was something about Trevor’s personality that made people want to tell him things, and he knew how to use it to obtain insider information. It was likely he got that titbit from his contacts in the major-affiliate teams. But…)

“Judging me?” Ginny echoed.

“Look, I’m not trying to upset you. I respect your friendship with Mike Lawson. I’m not insecure, I’m not jealous. I know you’re my girl. I’m happy you’re mine. I’m not distorting anything. I don’t do that, okay? I’m just not that sort of man.”

She nodded.

“I have first-hand information on that before Lawson was sent here, there was a formal meeting that took place that included him, the GM and some _Padres_ scouts. He was given specific instructions to observe you. They want to know if you are emotionally volatile.” 

“Emotionally volatile?”

He looked away. “Because you’re a woman.” He said, tentatively.

(The way Trevor said those words, Ginny got the impression that the appropriate response was to be outraged. And. If that truly was Mike’s motivation for friendship, then Trevor - and by extension Ginny - had every right to be insulted that she was being screened for emotional stability just because of her gender. So, why wasn’t she outraged?)

“What’s your point?” Ginny said.

“My point is, why him?”

“Meaning?”

“Why Mike Lawson’s opinion? Have you ever heard of a player being sent to vet another player?”

(No, she hadn’t.)

“And this is the same guy who broke Orson Carter’s nose.” Trevor added. “Should he really be the guy judging another player’s mental status.”

“Orson Carter?” Ginny exclaimed.

That was a shock, because:

A – because Mike didn’t tell her anything about broken noses.  (But then again, when she thought of Mike’s massive catcher hands curling into a fist and charging into somebody’s face in a punch, she reckons she shouldn’t be surprised that that was the end result.) B – Orson Carter wasn’t just any MLB exec. Not only was he was an award-winning studio host, he was a former _Padre._ How was it possible that something as juicy as a scuffle between him and Mike friggin’ Lawson _could_ have remained hidden? (But then again, when, Ginny distinctly remembered that Carter was absent from his show for about a month and when he returned his nose looked different. Ginny and Evelyn had made a drunken wager that Orson Carter had undergone a nose job.)

 _Dammit!_ She owed Evelyn fifty foot rubs because she lost the stupid bet!

“Yeah – it was at the Annual MLB Dinner.” Trevor babbled on. “Just the week prior Carter had made some critical comments on TV about Mike’s career being on the decline thanks to his knees wearing out.” When Ginny didn’t comment, Trevor poked. “Doesn’t that sound like a personal vendetta to you?”

(It _was_ a personal vendetta. She knew that already – on account of the whole Carter hitting on Rachel thing. And far as fault-finding was concerned, who was Ginny, of all people, to point out the biblical splinter in Mike’s eye? She spent a far too much time daydreaming about socking Kevin with her screwball. Even now.)

Trevor gave her that annoying all-knowing smirk again. “Gin. Lawson’s a great guy, sure, and I know you two are friends, hon, but he’s no saint.”

“No one’s a saint.”

“He’s using you.”

“Using me?”

“To save face. He’ll be deemed instrumental in calling you up.”

“Trevor! I’m not even close to being called up to triple-A, let alone the majors!”

“But, if they do call you up, who do you think they’ll credit for your success?”

“Well, my playing has improved, since he…”

“Ginny, that’s not what I mean. He’s a star player. He’ll steal your thunder, ‘sall I’m saying.”

She dropped Trevor off at the departure terminal, gave him her best girlfriend smile and her best girlfriendly kiss. She felt genuinely sad that they wouldn’t get any more time together until she drove down to Oakland, and yet, she felt a sense of relief at the same time that she didn’t have to see him again for a couple of weeks. Then, she shifted the gears and drove the car around to the parking area. 

(The way Trevor spoke, Ginny figured she was expected to make a big deal of it.

It wasn’t a big deal for her, but, it was clearly a big deal for Trevor.

So big a deal that she was not inclined to reveal that Mike’s flight was scheduled to arrive an hour later after she dropped Trevor off and that she was planning to surprise him at the arrival lounge.)

Clearly, Ginny was not the only one who’s had a complicated week. One look at Mike’s face when he exited the sliding doors and she could tell he was disturbed.

It couldn’t have been the All-Star game. Mike gave a stellar performance. There was talk circulating that he was going to be pulled back up into the major team because the _Padres_ were struggling without him.  

So, either her reception was an unpleasant surprise, or something was very, very wrong.

His scowl was extraordinarily grim. He was terrifyingly quiet. He nodded at her, took the keys from her and quietly followed her to where the car was parked.

She wondered if she should apologize for just showing up at the airport like that. She didn’t want him to misconstrue her intentions. She would have done the same for Will, or Blip or Evelyn.

Besides, it’s not like she was leaping into his arms and covering his face with kisses.

(Irrationally, that _was_ what she wanted to do when she spotted Mike when he exited the airport but… _details!_ )

 

Now here she is, in his car, staring at him.

It was at times like this that she missed Evelyn’s presence the most. Relationships confused Ginny. Evelyn always seemed to know what they were about.

(“Do you go first or do I go first?” Mike asked.)

“You go first.” She answers.

“You are way too quiet to be you.” 

“So are you.” She returns.

He sighs and doesn’t say anything more. He just looks cranky. “You came _all_ this way to pick me up just so that you can give me the silent treatment?” He speaks after a while. “Where’s all your blushy, shiny, happy in-loveyness?” He gives her sarcastic look - which curiously makes Ginny feel like everything’s going to be all right.

(At least, she knows her presence at the airport wasn’t unwelcome.)

“Where’s all your vain self-glorification on how you killed it at the All-Star game?” She retorts.

He glances at her and finally a grin makes it across his beard. (Also, she missed him. Really, really missed him. _That’s normal, right?)_

“Trouble in Paradise?” He prompts. “That look on your face is usually Trevor related.”

“Nah, it’s nothing.” She sighs, resorting to her failsafe mechanism to get her thoughts in line. “Great show at the All-Star game, Old Man! How’s Rachel?” She asks. “Did you guys get some proper QT together?”

His face changes. His smile wavers and Ginny can’t make sense of his eyes as he directs his attention towards the road. It’s like that he’s slapped on his facemask and she’s trying to decipher his facial cues through the grill.

He doesn’t even reply with a perfunctory affirmative. There’s neither a snort nor a grunt. She looks away. An icy invisible hand of apprehension drums its cold fingers around her heart.

Something _is_ dreadfully wrong and Ginny understands it’s related to the wife. She wants to probe but in this _particular_ matter, she has no _right_ whatsoever to intrude.

The awareness of that is what keeps her from pestering.

 

* * *

 

The change in him is dramatic and perceptible.

He isn’t himself. Everyone notices it. Even Bob – who is a complete dunce when it comes to reading people – asks her if he’s okay.

He comes for practice, focusses on the games, leaves early. Doesn’t mingle. If she pushes him to socialize with the team, he’ll join in but he won’t talk much. He’ll sit in a corner, sulking.  He’ll go from impassive to erratic in less than ten seconds, reset to edgy and grouchy in the another thirty.

His surliness doesn’t affect their game, but Ginny knows it’s a matter of time. He’s getting increasingly distracted and cagey. It feels like there’s something vile and lethal lurking underneath. He’s frustrated, stewing over something –incensed.

Something’s about to crack. Soon.

He doesn’t pass wry comments, or crack jokes the way he used to. He bites her head off more frequently. She’d take his behaviour personally but she’s more concerned _for_ him. When he’s not snappish, he’s reticent and pensive. If Ginny acts uppity he doesn’t smite her with his usual goading remarks, instead he just dismisses her with a wave of his hand. Movie nights don’t happen. Treks to the hillock don’t happen.

The fact that Mike spends less time in her proximity makes her wonder if Rachel expressed any concern about their friendship. Ginny comprehends how she’s perceived by other ballplayers’ spouses. Even if they do get to know her, she’s always viewed with suspicions, always perceived as a potential husband-stealer. (Evelyn was the exception, not the rule.)  

The idea of Mike’s idyllic marriage being on the rocks because of her – it terrifies her.

If that’s the case, Ginny decides, she’s going to give him as much space as he needs. As much as she misses the jovial, snarky, adorable person, she’s not that selfish that she can’t be sensitive to his marriage.

 

 

* * *

 

A reporter chases her down one morning as she heads to the ballpark.

“Ginny! Do you have any comment on how the Padres are waiting on Mike Lawson’s assessment of your personality before calling you up?”

Ginny knows the woman. She even likes her enough to answer. “If that’s true, then, I hope I’ve made a good impression.” She shines the smile that Amelia taught her to put on.

The reporter looks surprised by her calmness.

“You don’t think it’s unfair that they need to screen your personality?” She persists. “They wouldn’t do that for a man.”

It’s while Ginny’s weighing her next words that Mike’s voice booms behind her, sparing her the dilemma of how to answer best. “Personalities don’t win games, Moira.” He says, “And it’d be nice if you check the facts before you throw them around.”

‘Moira’ smiles flirtatiously beyond Ginny’s shoulder. (It bothers Ginny. A lot.)

“C’mon Mike.” Moira coos. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“Nope, I’m here to play ball.” Mike answers.

“Okay, then maybe you can comment on how you feel about facing off against Andy Carter at the upcoming game in Peoria? Rumours are you physically assaulted his brother, Orson Carter, three months ago.”

Ginny turns around to look at Mike. There’s a flash of frustration and guilt on his face before he pulls up that invisible face mask.

“No comment.” He bites out.

“He is real the reason they threw you to double-A, wasn’t it?”

He gives Moira a cold smile and then wheels around. “Baker, you comin’?”  He calls.

Ginny trudges behind him at first. He makes an irritated noise, hurries her with a gesture to fall in line. “Rough night, Old Man?” She asks, softly, noting how exhausted his side-profile looks.

He scrubs his beard, he looks at the ground as he walks. “Yeah.” He sighs, long and hard.

“Is that why you’re not at El Paso?” She asks. “Because they were worried you’d settle score with Andy Carter?”

Silence.

“Because that’s ridiculous of them to assume that.” She says. “You’re not that stupid.”

“Yeah.” He sighs.

“Are you?” She winces.

He sighs again and shakes his head. He opens the door to the clubhouse for her, lets her walk in first. His unconscious chivalry doesn’t upset her as much as the forlorn look on his face.

 _He’s using you._ Trevor had said.

(That allegation is not implausible, is it? Then why doesn’t she believe it? Why doesn’t it upset her? Instead, why does Trevor’s voice in her head feel like a greater imposition? What is wrong with her?)

The clubhouse as expected is empty. Mike drops his bag near his cubby and starts shedding his clothes.

Ginny fishes her stuff out of her duffle and then walks towards the curtain they’d set up for her. She looks up at it and something clicks in her head.

They’d installed it about a week after Mike joined the team. That couldn’t have been coincidence.

Ginny glances back at him as he strips down to his shorts.

 _“When you find a real friend in a teammate – and real friends will be rare, few and far between_ ,” Pop would tell her, “ _remember they deserve more than loyalty – they deserve the truth. It works both ways too. If you want a touchstone to test ‘em, there ain’t nothin’ better than the truth.”_

“Is it true?” She calls out as she pulls the curtain to a close. “That they sent you to check on how strong I was – mentally?”

There’s complete silence. She can’t even hear the shuffle of him changing.

She peeks around the curtain, expecting him to have disappeared into the shower are but squeaks and jumps back.

He’s right outside – leaning against the cubby next to her, playing with the roll of KT tape. Wearing a very cross, muddled expression on his features and a towel around his waist.

_(Oh dear god, why is that combination so sexy?)_

She flaps the curtain to a close, breathing heavily.

“It’s not that I mind if it’s the truth, Mike.” She says, changing out of her clothes and into her uniform rapidly, trying to put a damper on all the hot fuzzy feels. “I mean, if I stopped to bark at everyone who questioned my place in professional baseball, I wouldn’t have gotten this far.”

She closes her eyes and pushes that budding insecurity and frustration away. (She also pushes away the image of his bulging pecs while she’s at it.)

“It’s just,” She says, “I like to think that – we’re friends because we’re friends. I like to think there isn’t some ulterior motive for you to hang out with me. Like making sure that I’m not a loon – for example?”

(There. It’s out there. It’s up to him whether to tell the truth or to lie. Either way –  _Endure, endure, endure.)_

“You are a loon.” He says. His voice sounds like he’s still behind her curtain.

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head with a smile, and proceeds to hop into her pants.

He makes a whiny noise. “Okay, I’ll bite.” He sounds resigned and annoyed. “Do tell Baker,” He drags out sarcastically, “why would _anyone_ question how strong you were – mentally?”

Ginny swipes the curtain back, straightening her shirt. She drops onto her chair, pulling on her socks, looking up at him and batting her eyelashes theatrically. “Because why else would a pretty li’l ol’ me get my pretty li’l socks dirty playin’ with ‘em boys on a baseball field?” She drawls.

He looks incredulous at first. His eyes are wide and his mouth is half open. Ginny gives him a fake girly smile in return. The tension breaks on his face and he flashes that ear to ear grin that she’s been missing all these days.

“Yeah, why would she?” He agrees, folding those huge arms of his, his biceps bulging. “She _has_ to be insane. Batshit crazy!”

“Most certainly.” She resonates, wondering if she sounds as flirty as she feels.

His face relaxes into a gentle, fond smile. He searches her face with his eyes (and it makes her want to undress right there in front of him – _woah!)_

She rises after tying her cleats. She slips her belt into the loops and ties her hair. He watches her actions (and Ginny realizes he does that a lot, especially when he thinks she isn’t looking.) His smile fades to a grim line.

“Yes. Okay.” He announces. “They asked me if you have it in you.”

“Really?” Ginny believes him. “What did you tell them?”

“That your fastball is a joke.” He says, plainly.

Ginny frowns.

He shrugs his eyebrows. “That you’re resistant to authority and you’re oversensitive to correction.”

Ginny narrows her eyes.

His façade breaks. “Also, you won’t let me see you shower,” He chortles. “So, I have a personal disliking to you. Hence, I suggested that they should consider you for the next San Diego Chicken.”

“San Diego…” She sputters. “What?”

“And you know what? They’re considering it. Because, _my_ opinion matters, right?” He wiggles his eyebrows.

Ginny shakes her head and punches the belly of his bicep. He doubles over in guffaws. It’s when she hears that gruff, thunderous sound of pure amusement that it hits her how much she’s missed that too.

“Geez Baker! Of course, they didn’t ask me to assess if you were a kook!” He states. “Nobody asked me to…” he makes airquotes. “‘ _assess’_ anything! I’m not a scout, or a manager. It’s not my job. That’s not how it works up there.”

“Okay.” She says, feeling foolish.

“Mental health?” He grunts. “Do you really think the Front Office has the time to bother about _your_ mental health?”

“I dunno.” She shrugs.

He makes an angry grimace. “Do I look I can be the judge of anybody’s mental health?

She tilts her head. “You look like a cousin from Duck Dynasty.”

His teeth stay bared, but it’s transforms instantly to a grin of amusement, he tips his chin at her. “You love the beard.” He says, in a low, sensual voice.

She sputters with laughter and shakes her head. “I do not.”

He sighs loud, his face all smiley and boyish. He pushes away from the cubby and goes back to his own.

“Oh Rookie,” He sighs. “How many times do I have to tell you? It’s not always about you!” He grins over his shoulder. “ _Tsk!_ And they call me a narcissist!”

Ginny smiles sheepishly and doesn’t reply.

His grin lasts the whole day. Even, throughout the game (that they lose B-T-W).

If Lawson does intend to take credit for her success, Ginny decides, then she’ll take credit for being the one to cheer him up.

 

* * *

 

 

“Looks like Lawson’s finally going to hit that tonight.” Roy mutters beside her. Ginny spins around on her barstool and her eyes pop.

Ginny had never seen outstation reporters linger and ‘Moira’ had been hanging around the park for the last couple of days.  Ginny knew Mike had been doing a lot of interviews with her, but she didn’t read too much into it because she was preoccupied. Her post-game schedule was packed thanks to Amelia’s micromanagement so she hadn’t spent much time at their favourite watering hole to notice anything amiss.

Mike and Moira were playing a round of pool. He's – a little too close to her, physically. The vibe between them is undeniable. She was openly tittering and flirting with him,wearing _that_ look on her face when she preened for Mike. That groupie-in-heat expression that she’d seen on several of Mike’s fangirls.

That wasn’t the problem.

Mike was flirting with her too.  _That_ was the problem.

“It's like watching foreplay - that lasts a few days.” Roy provided without her asking, much to Ginny’s chagrin.

“He’s married.” Ginny argues. “He wouldn’t.”

“If it happens on the road, it doesn’t count.” Roy looks defensive.

“Maybe for you it doesn’t.” Ginny mutters, keeping her gaze fixed on them.

Mike had his head ducked towards Moira and he was – he was giggling. Moira had her hand on his bare forearm, her mouth towards her ear, her thumb was rubbing circles on his skin.

And he was – enjoying it.

Something rises within her from her gut, maybe deeper. Maybe it’s from her inner being – maybe her soul - wherever that was. It’s hot, boiling – a texture like a heat storm, like a fiery twister of prickly sand and sweltering heat. It tastes like bile, looks like the colour vermilion, sounds like thunder, feels like jealousy, revulsion, betrayal - anger.

Feels like Mom and Kevin.

She calls for the bartender and slaps a twenty. “How much has he had to drink?” She asks, covertly, nodding at Mike.

The bartender’s reply convinces her of her next move. Ginny hops off the barstool and wades towards them. A lot of people recognize her, some try to rope her into a selfie or an autograph. She shirks them off. She strides across and slaps her hand on the green felt of the pool table.

Moira jumps away, startled. Mike just scowls at her.

“Ginny!” Moira giggles. “Hey! I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for days!” She slips her hand into Mike’s elbow and leans against him.

Ginny glares at her captain, at her teammate, at her friend, at a man who she held to a higher standard than this.

He glares back at her. It’s like he’s daring her to call him out on his behaviour.

She sure fucking will.

Ginny grimaces, stretching her lips across her teeth, coming around to their side and literally grabbing Mike’s hand. She uses all her strength to haul him away, wrenching him out of Moira’s grasp.

She interleaves herself between him and Moira.

“Baker, what the fuck?” He growls.

She faces a surprised Moira and crosses her arms and gives her a fake patronizing smile. “I’m sorry, I don’t have time or patience for homewreckers.”

“What?” Moira hisses.

“Baker!” Mike barks. "Watch it!"

“Shut up!” She throws her head to the side, unable to look at him directly. She turns her gaze on Moira. “You need to scram, lady!”

Moira looks between her and Mike with confusion. “You can’t tell me to -!”

“Oh, I just did.” She announces. “He’s married – you know that.” She hisses. “Everyone knows that! What the hell are you doing? Don’t _you_ have any self-respect?”

Her world spins. Ginny feels the entire force of Mike’s long sturdy fingers grip her pitching elbow like he’s squeezing the lever of an isometric handgrip.

Somehow, her feet are coaxed into rising, she’s on the balls of her toes, her eyes at level with his. He managed to pull her off the ground with just that one hand alone. Her arm flexes, trying to wriggle out of his grip – his hand tightens – the pain doubles. There’s no mistaking the intense anger she sees in his eyes, there’s no doubting the murder that’s oozing from his face, there’s no confusion in the frightening grind of his teeth. With that beard, he looks ten times more dangerous.

It’s not just his strength that radiates painfully through her skin via her muscles into her bones, it’s the might of raging fury – all the way. He looks like he’s ready to snap her arm like a twig.

 _(Fuck it_. If this is how her career ends, so be it.)

“What. The fuck. Are you doing?” He growls.

When his breath hits her face, Ginny thinks of surgical spirit. Like the one the used to clean her wounds after the accident. It takes her a second to realize it’s the unpleasant, sickly stench of alcohol.

Far too much alcohol.

“What. The fuck. Are _you_ doing?” She returns.

“You don’t see me nosing about your business.” He taunts.

“This isn’t the same.”

“No?”

“No!” She raises her voice.

In her peripheral vision, she sees people flocking towards them. They’re attracting attention. Mike’s eyes avert too.

“What do you want?” He growls.

“What do you want?” She shouts.

“I want you to go away, Baker.” He growls. “It’s time for the little duckling to find another duck to waddle behind.”

“Well get used to being Mother Duck, Lawson, ‘cause I’m not budging!”

“Fuck off.” He hisses, relaxing his grip.

It’s a momentary respite, enough for her to gather her thoughts, and control her voice. “No!” She barks, wincing as she struggles to keep herself balanced on her toes. “Mike, you have had a lot to drink. You’re not thinking straight. You don’t wanna do this.”

“You’re twenty-one for crying out loud!” He roars. “What do you know?”

The entire bar falls silent. The music stops. The chatter stops. Whispers and murmurs spread.

“I know you don’t want to hurt your wife.” She whispers, angrily. “You think _Moira_ cares that you’re married. You think she’s going to keep this a secret? You think it matters to her what this would destroy what you’ve spent years building…?”

“You don’t know a fuck about what I want.” He cuts her off, looking at her with stormy eyes.

“I think I’ll go.” Moira simpers behind.

“Stay!” Mike shouts.

“Leave!” She barks at the same time.

His grip tightens. The pain shooting up her arm gets unbearable.

“This is none of your business!” He bites out, shaking her.

“I’m making it my business.” She shouts back, struggling to keep the stars out of her eyes. She doesn’t see him anymore. She sees Pop lying on the road – his skull bleeding, his eyes open and lifeless. She sees her mother behind the shutter, giggling with Kevin.

_Pop never knew…about Kevin._

“Baker…” Mike warns. “Get outta my face or so help me I’ll…”

“You’ll what?” She dares him. “Embarrass me? Go ahead. You won’t be the first teammate who’s tried to humiliate me. I can take a hit, Lawson! But what I won’t do, is just stand by and watch you throw something precious away!”

“I know what I’m doing.”

He's throwing her words back at her.

“Do you?” She barks.

His eyes widen at first and then they narrow. Ginny sags when his grip loosens, falling back on her soles. She closes her eyes and takes in a deep breath, and puffs it out. She steps back, twisting her mouth. “Mike.” She pleads, with her eyes closed. “If you were sober – and this was truly your choice, I’d walk away. But you are not sober and I know something is up with you. And if you wanna hate me for the rest of your life – I can live with that, but I cannot live with just doing nothing letting you make an irreparable mistake.” 

When she opens her eyes, Ginny feels all her internal rage and her shell of sternness shatter, piece by piece like shards of glass.

Mike’s face – it’s – unbearable.

There’s no wrath. There’s heartbreak, betrayal and anguish running havoc all over, and Ginny sees those emotions flash, one on top of the other – fulminating into something desperate.

It solidifies her decision to stay put. She swallows. “You are married.” She reminds him in a soft, wavering but mostly even voice.

“Tell that to Rachel’s boyfriend!” He spits and releases her with a jerk and stomps out of the bar.

_Oh, dear God._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all should be ashamed thinkin' that Ginny's such a weakling that Mike could hurt her arm.  
> A lot of love and positivism came my way and I managed to finish this chapter in time for no-pitch Thursday.

At least no one can accuse her of being the unenduring little duckling.

Ginny doesn’t know how or when to quit. Pop never gave her the scope. There was temporary setbacks, occasional downtimes, some rough doldrums but for everything she faced, there was only one outcome and that was to not-quit.

_Endure. Endure. Endure._

It made things _inconvenient_  - for others. It even made her a pest at times, because she couldn’t leave a situation undealt with. Ginny had few friends but if anyone merited her obstinacy, it was those closest to her.

She will always have their back. Even if they’re hellbent on showing nothing else to her.

 

She tails him (check that, _sprints_ after him) slamming out of the bar, tossing her head to see in which direction he went and when she couldn’t find him she spun on her heels, rushing towards the carpark and – _wham_!

Straight into a wall. Right in the middle of the open carpark.

“Goddammit!” She curses, rubbing her nose as a stinging pain shoots between her eyes and makes her sneeze.

“Perfect” The wall mutters.

(He hadn’t left, thank god! What was he doing there? Was he waiting on her? Did he expect her to chase after him? Did she care? As long as he hadn’t taken off, driving in that angry, inebriated state only to end up in jail or in a ditch – she was good.)

“Are you sure?” She yells at the Mike. “Are you freakin’ sure?”

There’s no answer. (Truth is, there’s a high-pitched tinning noise in her ear).

“You better be sure!” She yells again.

“I’m drunk, Baker!” He shouts. “Not deaf!”

“I am!” She shouts, pointing to her ear with one hand and rubbing her nose with the other to stop the next sneeze. It backfires; a flurry of sneezes hash through her words.  “Are you ( _achoo_!) sure? ( _Achoo_!) Do you haa-( _achoo!)_ ’ve proof? Did she ( _achoo!)_ admit it to you?  Suspicion is not good enoughaa -( _aaachoo_!). Did you catch her in the act? ( _Achoo_!) Did you see them together? ( _Achoo_!) Do you have absolute confirmation?” 

By the time her last ‘achoo!’ is done, her eyes are watering, but at least her ears have stopped humming, with only the sound of his chuckling filling them.

She catches her breath while giving him a wan, sympathetic smile. When her dodgy vision clears, she wriggles her nose to see if it’s still on her face. When she’s satisfied it’s not going to fall off, she snuffles and focuses on him.

He forces her chin up, peers at her nostrils and mumbles, “Doesn’t look like there’s blood.” His breath is rank with the puke-inducing stench of alcohol, but his eyes are more lucid than when they were arguing at the bar.

“Are you abso-fucking-lutely sure?”  She sniffles as she jerks her chin straight. “Guilt - beyond all reasonable doubt?”

His warm sweaty hand claps her pitching shoulder lightly. He doesn’t answer for a brief while. “No, your honour.” He says. It’s not sarcastic. There’s surety to the ‘No.’

“Then- _you_ are an asshat, Old Man!” She rebukes with a pouty frown. “And unfair. You’re a big, fat, hairy, unfair, asshat!”

He cocks his head and pulls a face. “How do you manage to make _me_ the bad guy every fucking time.”

“How do you manage to blame me for _your_ assholery?” She mutters.

“It’s a gift _and_ a curse, Baker.” She hears smug amusement in his voice. “It really is.”

She huffs exasperatedly.

His hand slides down her t-shirt sleeve, over the bare skin of her arm till her elbow. He caresses over the spot where he’d grabbed her, thumbing over her triceps soothingly with a quizzical look. Ginny doesn’t feel the dull aching reminder of his vice-like grasp. Even if the pain in her nose wasn’t distracting her, her body is thrumming with too much adrenaline to register anything.

He pulls his hand back swiftly when she shakes her head. It’s as though he’s terrified of touching her for too long.

“You could have broken my arm.” She scolds. “Ruined all the barrier-breaking and what not. Ended my career!”

“I wanted to.” He admits ruefully.

“Good.” She sighs and then frowns. “If I was a guy you probably would have, right?”

“If that’s your idea of equal opportunity!” He gripes. “You and I need to have a serious talk about misguided feminism.”

She ignores his jibe, reaches for his wrist, aiming for the keys she can hear jangling in his fingers. He pulls his hand away and she gets a handful of muscly forearm instead. The hairs over his thick skin feels wispy and soft, like more like a baby’s lanugo than a man’s fur; they stand up, syncing with the rough hitch in his breath. Ginny swallows hard, battling the desire to smooth it down. 

“Give me your keys!” She demands.

“Why?” He croaks.

“’M not gonna let you drive, dummy.” She argues. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m perfectly capable of driving, Baker!”

“Give it to me!” She orders, tugging the keys out of his hand. “It’s dangerous to drink and drive!”

“It’s dangerous to be _you_ and drive.” He resists.

“C’mon Cap’n! ‘M not kidding.”

“Neither am I, Rookie! I’m sober enough to drive.”

“If you’re stupid enough to screw your marriage over a hunch, you’re definitely not sober enough to drive!”

“You’re like a snail pulling a cart when you drive, Baker!” He whines. “Do you know even know that there’s a low speed limit?”

“I don’t care if I have to fight you out here, Old man. You are not going to drive! I can take you in a fight!”  She challenges loudly. “I push seventy!”

“Give me one good reason why I should listen to you?” He bellows.

“My father was killed by a drunk driver.” She blurts carelessly, while inwardly speculating if a knee to his nuts would help her with the key extraction.

Suddenly, the keys are dropped into her palm.

“Okay. Fine.” He grumbles. “You win. C’mon, let’s go.”

( _Huh.)_

 

 

 

(If wisdom is learning from other’s experiences, Ginny’s a frickin’ sage. Seeing Mike vomit is a revolting enough cautionary tale on the fallacies of binge drinking.)

“Y’know, I’d have been doing that on Moira’s face if you weren’t such a nosy busybody.” He cackles nonsensically. He gets a faraway look and stupid grin. “Well maybe not her face.”

His grin collapses, he groans and grabs the side of the toilet, spewing vomit. “Wouldn’t be right for my reputation.” He coughs.

“Ugh!” She swats his head. “That’s crass – and gross.”

“Yeah.” He coughs sheepishly.

He wheezes and retches one final time before flopping back on his ass, leaning against the tub, breathing heavily. Ginny gags, gingerly patting his shoulder as a (very grossed out) but consolatory ‘there, there’ gesture.

His face is ashen and sweaty but his eyes are clear – and better focussed. He pulls his knees in an attempt to sit cross legged and loud, frustrated groans erupt. Even Ginny can hear the soft cracking sounds when he folds them.

He gives her a grateful smirk when she crouches in front of him with a wet towel, to wipe his face and beard.

Motherfucker!” He hisses, his face spasms, his worry lines deepen and he grabs his stomach. “This is going to be hell tomorrow.” He gripes.  She winces at him in sympathy when he slaps his face, fighting off a wave of giddiness.

He peeks at her through his fingers when it seems like the colic has passed. “Baker – maybe you wanna skip your start tomorrow? What if your arm still hurts in the morning?” He says in a penitent tone.

“I’ve played with a sprained biceps, Mike.” She consoles him. “I was sixteen.”

“Just when I thought you couldn’t get any more stupid.” He grunts. “You know, the world won’t end if you skip a start, Baker.” He points out. “You don’t need to push yourself so hard.”

“I’ve got biology workin’ against me, ’ve gotta work harder than everyone else.”

“Oh fuck, no! Not that one!” He rolls his eyes. She chuckles and pats his head. He gives her that cute guilty smile again that reminds her of the time when Pop found Will’s stash of pot.

He groans, throwing his arms back to brace the tub. He grunts and sighs all the way up, needing her help to stand. He’s pretty heavy when he’s unbalanced and Ginny has to throw her arm around his waist to keep herself from toppling under his weight. He quickly shifts his bulk, but leans on her slightly as she leads him out of the bathroom.

“You wanna crash here?” He asks. Those worry lines peak over his forehead.

It does seem a better prospect than driving back at this ungodly hour. Mike’s swanky-ass condo has a futon roll-out sofa that’s more comfortable than the bed at her service apartment. She’s dozed on it often (every time), but she’s never stayed the night.

“It’s really late, Baker.” He mumbles hazily, rubbing his fists on the crown of her head. He’s scowling at her with squinty eyes, but that’s a rare gesture of fondness. When he does that it means he’s paying her the highest compliment.

Ginny opens her mouth to speak but he taps her nose with his index finger reproachingly. “No! No!” He growls. “It’s not because you can’t take care of yourself. Or because you need to be escorted home like a little girl.”  He clucks his tongue. “It sure as hell is fucking _not_ because you are ‘Orphan Annie’! If I have to hear that one more time, I swear I’ll rip out my ears – or your tongue.” He barks. “Maybe I’ll rip out your tongue. Yeah that would be better. Less pain for me.”

Ginny suppresses her giggle under her hand.

“Stay, Baker, please?” He sighs, beseechingly.

“Okay.” She chuckles. 

 

Ginny changes into a large _Padres_ jersey that hangs over her knees with a V-neckline that’s so wide it keeps slipping off one shoulder no matter how many times she pulls it into place.

It smells very - Mike Lawsony. A strong unobtrusive mixed scent of faded cologne, familiar detergent and something very - him. It’s nerve-wracking and comforting at the same time; makes her feel that she’s cuddled into him.

When she pads out into the living room, she finds him setting up a lightweight quilt and dropping an extra pillow. (She likes to cuddle a pillow; she wonders how he remembers such minutia in his inebriated state). He stands back with feet braced apart and hands on his waist, surveying the expanded futon with a frumpy, unhappy gaze, puckered eyebrows, twitchy beard, that moves with his angry gum-chewing.

“Baker!” He bellows, unaware that she’s in the room. “Are you sure you don’t wanna take my bed?”

“Yep.” She answers, startling him.

His face pales, the furrows on his forehead relax and his eyes widen as they sweep over her. Something primal flashes on his face when his eyes dwell over the number _36_ over her torso. Ginny grabs the neck of the jersey before it slides off her shoulder.

“Er…” He shakes his head, giving her an apologetic half-smile. “I should give you a robe.

“No…this is fine.” She says, crossing towards the futon. “I’ll be up early anyway. No weirdness. Don’t worry, Cap.”

He’s cranked up the air conditioner, and she’s starting to feel the cool air nip at her skin. _That’s why you’re shivering_ , she tells herself. It’s got nothing to do with the way he’s looking at her.

She hurries to the futon and climbs in. The hem of the jersey rides up her thigh, and the neckline flops down her arm, exposing her shoulder. His eyes dart between her legs and her shoulder once before he looks away. “’Kay.” He nods.

Ginny adjusts herself, tucking herself into the comforter, covering herself fully, watching him walk away. Instead of drifting to his bedroom he moves to the lavish couch about four feet away and topples into it with a groan.

“Don’t you wanna go sleep in your…?” She asks.

“I can’t sleep, not just yet.” He answers before she can complete.

That pained sigh gives her an inkling as to what might be keeping him up.

“You wanna work this out with me, Old Man?” She turns her head to him. “You wanna tell me why you doubt your wife?”

“Nope.”

“Then I’m not gonna ask.” She turns her head and looks up at the ceiling.

“Good.”

“Who is it?” She says, nonetheless, after giving him some time to brood.

He chuckles like he expected her to chase the topic.

“Do you know who it is?” She asks again, turning to her side, tucking the comforter around her chest and fixing the traitorously big neck of the jersey under her chin for decency’s sake.

He’s spread-eagled on the couch staring up at the ceiling with both legs hanging to the floor. The side view of his face presents a very sullen aura. “Nope.” He sighs. “Maybe? I dunno.”

“Why do you think there’s a boyfriend?”

“Because – I do.” Is all he says.

And Ginny isn’t going to trivialize his intuitions.

 _The wife always knows_ , Evelyn told her once when they were gossiping about the affairs of unfaithful ballplayers. Men were generally quite dense when it came to women but Mike was no fool when it came to reading people. Ginny thinks maybe Evelyn’s dictum applies to caring husbands too.

“Maybe it’s just a friendship.” She points out, rolling to her back, staring up at the ceiling.

“I’ve considered that.”

Of course, he had. Mike was devoted and loyal. There’s no way he would accuse Rachel of infidelity unless his doubts had foundation. 

She thinks of her mother; of the seething bitterness and the things unsaid between Pop and Mom that she sensed as a child but couldn’t understand. She thinks of Evelyn; struggling with twin toddlers by herself, while Blip was shuffled back and forth to the other side of the country during an eventful trade season last year; she thinks of the loneliness and isolation on Evie’s face that was never verbalized but was so strong that it left a bystander like Ginny with a sense of emptiness and anxiety.

There was a great effort and sacrifice that was required of a baseballer’s spouse.

“Maybe she feels neglected.” Ginny thinks aloud. “I mean this life doesn’t allow for much family time, right?”

He doesn’t reply.

“Is it possible?” She asks. “That you’re overreading – whatever your reading into?”

“Yes.” He answers after a long silence.

“What if nothing’s going on?”

“Then I guess I’m that guy.” He sighs.

“What guy?”

“That insensitive, selfish husband who only gets insecure about his wife when there’s a threat of losing her.” He sounds bitter and fatalistic. Those words don’t seem like _his_ assessment as much as someone else’s.

“Rachel always says that I love chasing, but I don’t like having.” He explains, after a long, frustrated sigh. “The minute I get what I want I find a way to complicate it - or throw it away.”

“Is that true?” She asks.

“I don’t know.” He sounds helpless. “She’s never been wrong about me.”

Ginny doesn’t contradict or reassure him. She hasn’t known him as long as Rachel has and she can’t possibly know him as well as Rachel does. She’s just the friend, not the wife. How can she contradict the wife? (So what, if everything inside her screams in disagreement.)

“When you broke Carter’s nose –” Ginny asks. “How did she take it?”

He snorts a bitter laugh. “Not well.” He groans. “She called me out for acting like a dimwitted jock. And she was right. Handsy overfriendly men are like an occupational hazard in her line of work and she’s always been a pro at brushing off advances.” He swallows audibly. “I should have just let her deal with Carter by herself. Instead, I overreacted. Stepped in like the overprotective jealous husband that I was – and lost control.” He lets out a forlorn sigh. “It nearly cost me my career!”

Ginny didn’t expect that admission. He’s always so inexpressive and guarded when it comes to divulging personal facts.

“If you ask her about this friendship with the guy – upfront?” She says. “How will she take it?”

“I don’t know. I’m afraid…”

Ginny turns her head to him. He’s still staring at the ceiling.

“I’m afraid,” He repeats.

“Of what?”

“That she’ll be so disgusted with me. That it will drive her away. Even if there’s nothing now, it may drive her to him – to the guy she’s being friendly with.” He groans loudly. “God, I’m such shmuck!”

Ginny looks up at the ceiling.

“We’re already in a rough place as it is.” He says, softly. “Over the past few months, there’s just too much that’s happened. It’s my fault. I’ve been a difficult guy to be around. I mean, my knees are giving me trouble, Baker. I’m not getting any younger. I’m trying to get the most I can out of the end-stage of my career. I haven’t won a league championship even once, let alone a World Series. And things changed after they made me Captain. We - We don’t get enough time together.”

His willingness to express his insecurities and troubles surprises her. His candid confessions maybe related to the alcohol circulating in his bloodstream, but she expected him to be more defensive. Yet his answers suggest the contrary. It’s like he’s – taking responsibility for things.

It makes him seem so human. So strong _and_ frail, at the same time.   

“So…” She prods, slowly, “if you had that one-night stand with Moira or any random woman, would she forgive you?”

“No.”

“I guess I don’t regret cockblocking you then.” She remarks wryly.

“Yeah.” He laughs bitterly.

Ginny lets out a rough, shaky breath unsure of what to say next.

“I can’t ask her.” He states, without prompting. “Even if she lies to me – I won’t be able to tell. She’s good at it.”

Ginny snaps her head towards him. “Why would she lie to you?”

He’s still staring at the ceiling. Ginny wonders if that drop running down the corner of his eye to his ear is a real tear of sadness or just eye-water.

“I – I don’t know. She doesn’t - she won’t.” He sounds hollow. He scrubs his face, scratches his beard and shakes his head. “You’re right.” He says. “She won’t lie to me. And – maybe I am overreading things. Maybe - I just freaked out.”

(This is why relationships confuse her. There’s nothing simple about them. At the end of the day, they’re all a snafu of mindgames and frankly, Ginny finds them exhausting.)

“So that’s why you ran to Moira?” She asks.

He turns his head and looks intently at her face for a long time. A soul-rending gaze that makes her feel vulnerable.

“I couldn’t run where I…” He hesitates. “I _can’t_ run – where I want to.”

“Where do you want to run?” She frowns.

“Nowhere.” He jerks his head up at the ceiling, like he’s ashamed. (She knows he is. The top of his ear that’s facing her side, turns pink). “I dunno - San Diego?” He speaks quickly. “I guess I miss home. I miss my team.”

Somehow it feels like a half-truth, the way he says it. Nonetheless, Ginny wonders why it never occurred to her that in the three odd months she’d known him that he was missing his life in San Diego, or playing in major league games. He always gave his hundred percent into the _Missions_ like it was his only team. He’s always been so professional and level-headed with other players; never acted like a resentful, disinterested veteran thrown in with the newbies by accident. She feels like she’s been selfish and insensitive to his hidden aches. She feels like she’s been a bad friend.

“I’m sorry, Old Man” She says.

“Yeah, so am I.” He mumbles.

A comfortable silence falls over them in which Ginny’s eyelids get heavier.

“I owe you an apology and a thank you for tonight, Ginny.” She hears his voice through the warmth of his scent emanating from the jersey, the comfort of the futon and the strange sense of security she feels by his mere presence in the room alone.

“You don’t owe me anything, Mike.” She murmurs. “I really hope that you’re wrong about this.”

“So do I.” Is the last thing she hears as she slips into a fitful slumber.

 

Ginny knows she’s dreaming again. But it’s less a memory, more a nightmare. She’s floating above the truck, like an astral projection that’s struggling to dive inside to reach Pop. Something’s keeping her buoyant – keeping her away from reaching her father. Her suspended spirit _knows_ that Pop knows about Mom and Kevin.  She can _feel_ the suffering of his heart in hers. She can _feel_ unshed tears from his eyes in her own.

He’s driving head on to the oncoming lights, not trying to veer away from it. Her spirit lets out an unheard, anguished scream when the body flies through the windshield and ends up on the side of the road. Blood splatters in all directions.

It’s not Pop, though.

It’s Mike.

 

Ginny gasps awake, looking around desperately, the morbid fear of losing Mike clinging to her insides. She muffles the cry of relief escaping her mouth under her palm when she finds him on the couch. The lights are still on. He’s sleeping on his side facing the futon, snoring lightly, resting his head on a folded elbow. He’s still dressed, right down to his shoes. His legs and feet are dangling off the couch while his back is curved in a way that is just not right for any human spine. 

Ginny throws the comforter off, rubbing her eyes. She winces at the throb in her pitching arm, she rubs the area only to find angry finger-shaped purple contusions tattooed into her skin like an armlet.

Something about that dream that just makes her want to forgive him for that – so she does.

She stumbles out of the futon, wobbles towards him, and sinks to the floor to pull off his shoes and socks. It’s a struggle to hoist his legs, but Ginny’s never been one to backdown from a challenging task even half-asleep. As soon as she props his feet on the couch, he twitches and unconsciously realigns himself, rolling onto his back and adjusting himself into the couch, muttering unintelligibly.

She regards him as he sleeps. He’s relaxed, peaceful, and there’s something so innocent about him in this form. He’s dreaming; eyeballs undulating rapidly under closed eyelids. His eyelashes resting on the tops of his cheeks catch her fancy – they’re thicker and longer than most women’s lashes, even her own. 

Ginny allows herself the one luxury: she caresses the side of his face with the back of her hand. She runs her knuckles over the soft, pinky-white skin from temple to cheek. She gathers tufts of hair over his forehead, threads her fingers through them, combs them off his forehead. She lightly thumbs the downy, woolly hair of his beard, unable to hold back her smile.

It’s a war inside; between will and desire; a battle, between reckless want and moral decency. A fight against longing: to drop a kiss on his forehead, or his eyes, or his nose or his cheek – or his mouth.

 _He’s married,_ her will asserts, _endure, endure, Ginny – don’t give in._

 _Kiss him…_ everything else protests like a plea.

Thankfully her will wins. Ginny rises off her haunches and sighs with relief before she turns to the futon.

But, she is stopped.

His long, thick fingers interlock with hers, those rough club shaped fingertips dig into the webspaces of her hand. Ginny turns to him, finds him unmoving, with only eyelids fluttering open. He peers at her through bleary eyes, through pupils that are half dilated from sleep and irises are a murky green-grey. A small, drowsy but unwary smile spreads his face as he blinks up at her.

She foolishly wonders what it would be like to open her eyes to _that_ every morning.

She’s spellbound, unable to unthread her fingers even though his touch is light. His thumb rubs the outer edge of her forefinger – trace the hardened bumps of her pitching calluses.

“Is this a dream, Ginny?” He mumbles. His voice is small, high pitched – more boy than man.

“Yes.” She lies.

His eyelids fall, drifting down like a shutter over his eyes. “Then I can kiss you here, right?” He asks. His tone is guileless, pure, like a child. As sweet and soft as his widening smile.

Ginny’s jaw sags. He releases her hand and clutches her knee gently; he thumbs featherlight circles over her kneecap while the rest of his fingers drum over the flexure behind her knee, short jagged fingernails stroke over the sensitive patch of skin. A distinct, inimitable fuzziness flares through her like an electric charge, goosebumps erupt over her thigh.

Ginny gasps. She swallows the dry, lump of arousal that has mysteriously taken hold of her throat.

Trevor’s never touched her there, never like that. It’s intimate and petrifying.

One eye pops open, looking at her expectantly. She feels acutely conscious of skinfold at the apex where her arm meets sideboob, barefacedly exposed by his jersey slanting across her breast. She feels sweaty in her neck, underboobs and between her thighs. Her mouth feels raw and dry.

It’s the glassy, unfocussed look in his open eye that consoles her that he’s still insensible.

 _(I want to kiss you too.)_ “No.” She whispers loudly through a parched throat.

His smile changes to a brief, reconciled, smirk in which he closes his eyelid again. “Of course.” He murmurs and sighs, like he expected that as an answer. He releases her promptly, pulling his hand to rest over his belly.

Ginny feels a whole another type of pain and anxiety when she drags herself away from him. She wanders into the bedroom and finds a lightweight comforter neatly folded on his bed.

She spots the folded photoframe on his nightstand, just as she fetches it.

One side has only a close up of the undoubtedly beautiful Rachel Patrick, smiling into the camera. The other one is a picture of their wedding. The couple hugging and smiling at each other. It’s the Mike from her wall. Clean shaven, handsome, leaner – unmistakably in love with the beautiful redhead that’s looking up at him with adoring eyes.

Ginny is doused in an ice-cold bucketful of realty mixed with truth tea.

She carries the comforter back into the couch, and drapes it over the Mike that she knows. Older, bearded, thicker – still handsome in a different sort of way. His lure is more dangerous now, more captivating, less prejudiced by his chocolate-boy looks and more defined by his magnetic personality. The real Mike lies fast asleep – still very much in love with Rachel Patrick.

She cannot read too much into what just happened, she decides. He was dreaming, incoherent. His mind muddled with overwhelming emotions and complications.

She ought to feel guiltier about wanting to kiss him – even if it’s just to see what it feels like.  _(He’s married. You - have a boyfriend, for crying out loud!)_

She doesn’t.

She climbs back into the futon after turning off the lights and tries to sleep.

She can’t.

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

The three-day trip to Oklahoma was bittersweet. Trevor was delirious about her arrival. He homered in every appearance at bat. He even pointed to her, tipped his helmet at her, blew her a kiss at her while on field. He was so excited and so happy that it translated into a minimum of three orgasms every night. Ginny was sated and ecstatic.

It was uncomfortable for her at first, to be seen in the stands of the ballpark, and hanging out with him publicly. A lot of the groupies recognized her. She caught them whispering to each other while pointing to her. Several of Trevor’s teammates noted her presence and threw funny acknowledging looks. Several reporters she knew approached her for comments, few directly enquired about the reason for her presence at an unrelated game.

A familiar auburn-haired woman comes up to her while she’s waiting on Trevor outside the clubhouse after the last game is done. Ginny tries to ignore Moira by looking away, wondering what it is about Mike and petite redheads. 

“Hi Ginny, can I talk to you?”

“I’ve got nothin’ to say to you.”

Moira catches her arm without her permission and pulls her aside. Ginny’s about to snap at her but she apologizes – for everything.

“For the record.” Moira adds. “I’m not a groupie.” She smirks. “Well maybe I am a little, but I’m not a total slut. I was under the impression him and Rachel were separated.”

“What? Why?” Ginny frowns.

Moira averts her eyes.

“Did he give you that impression?” Ginny prompts.

“No – it’s not _just_ because of him.” Moira moistens her mouth, she looks around uncertainly like she’s afraid of eavesdroppers.

“What do you mean?”

Moira sighs. “I like you Ginny. I think that you’re the real deal. And it’s not because you are an inspiration for girls who wanna play baseball. It’s clear to me that you are a very good person and a good friend to Lawson. And _that’s_ the only reason I’m telling you this…”

Ginny nods for her to continue.

“I made an assumption based off something I already knew – or rather, I saw.”

“Which was?”

Moira looks around again. “I saw that sneaky SOB Leroy Franklin from ESPN here.” She whispers. “If he hears this I’ll be in big trouble.”

“Hear what?” Ginny drops her voice.

“This is between you and me – off the record, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I freelance for Fox Sports.” She drops her voice. “That includes charity events, fundraisers. Erm...I saw Rachel – with this person a couple of times. And – it looked like they were more than friends. And I hadn’t seen Mike around in a while.” She rubs her hairline. “He was on the DL and then there was the whole fiasco with Carter and then they threw him back down to San Antonio of all the places…” She rambles.

“Moira.”

“Sorry, yeah – again, this is between you and me, right?”

Ginny needs to nod thrice to reassure Moira.

“I have a confirmed source that says that the Front Office called Lawson back up a week after the All-Star game but he requested for more time. He said he wanted to finish the season with the _Missions_. Why would he do that?”

Ginny has no clue, so she keeps mum.

“It’s why I assumed that him and Rachel were no longer a thing.” Moira shrugs. “I’ve known Mike for a couple years and he never flirted with me before – so when he seemed frisky, I figured they were going their separate ways.”

Ginny tries not to react, but holy hell! She’s irritated.

“I mean, he said it there and then, right? That she had a boyfriend? I heard him say it. So, it’s almost official, isn’t it?”

“Did you see Rachel and the guy in a compromising position?” Ginny asks. “Like were they kissing or…”

“No.” Moira frowns. “Not really. But they looked like _more than_ friends, Ginny. I have a nose for these things.”

“Did you tell Mike about it?”

“No.” Moira swallows.

“Don’t.” Ginny warns. “There’s no need to fix what ain’t broke. They’re married - as married can be, Moira. Take it to the bank. I don’t know what – the other night - was about but he _was_ really drunk. He loves his wife.”

Moira makes a sullen face. “Wow, I feel stupid.” She looks at Ginny remorsefully. “Like I said – I made an assumption. A very stupid one.” She gives Ginny an earnest look. “I swear to you Ginny – I wouldn’t have hit on him if I didn’t think his marriage was done. You _have_ to believe me.”

Ginny believes her.

“He’s a great guy.” Moira says, with a heavy sigh. “Y’know –? A genuine sweetheart. I was about to lose my job at the network two years ago and he put in a word for me.”

Ginny rubs her eyebrows and pinches her mouth and then looks up at Moira’s disheartened face. “I’m waiting on my friend.” Ginny says, with a small peace-offering a smile. “If you want, I’ll give you an interview here till he comes, on the record.” Ginny nods. “No personal questions.”

Moira looks surprised at Ginny’s proffer. She reaches for her bag in a daze, pulling out a voice recorder – but when she turns it on she’s got a big, excited grin on her face.

 

* * *

 

“See now, that wasn’t so bad?” Trevor chirps. “Was it?”

Ginny musters a smile for him that she hopes he doesn’t seen through. Her mind is replaying the intel that Moira gave her about Mike’s wife and the wife’s ‘friend’. (One time her Mom disappeared for a weekend, telling Pop that she was going to visit a ‘friend’. The ‘friend’s name was Kevin and only Ginny knew who he was.)

“Why didn’t you tell your reporter friend that I was your guy?” He asks her, distracting her from her thoughts.

“Because you’re still a player.”

“Ginny! C’mon! Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?”

“Don’t be silly!”

“I wanna shout it out from the rooftops, honey!” He whoops. “I’m in love with Ginny. She’s my girl!”

Ginny gurgles with laughter and silences him with a kiss. “Well, the day you’re a civilian, I’ll announce it in a press conference.” She chides amusedly. “Until then it’s just how it’s going to be. Nut up!”

Trevor laughs and shakes his head.

Ginny smiles at him fondly.

Trevor had many traits that reminded Ginny of Amelia. Except as far as people skills were concerned, unlike Amelia’s bulldozer style, Trevor was tactfully astute. Most folks didn’t realize his craftiness until the rug was swept from under their feet.

And, Ginny appreciated that quality. It gave her comfort to know that he was that he was better equipped for a business suit rather than a baseball uniform. It gave her consolation that he wouldn’t regret his decision to leave professional baseball.

It gave her hope for a long-term future with him.

“I love you Ginny.” Trevor looks deep into her eyes, kissing her before she boards the bus.

“I love you too.” She says, grinning wide, convincing herself that the mounting alarm and worry she feels for the married catcher back at San Antonio is irrelevant right now.

She spends the bus ride to San Antonio feeling good about her decision to show up at Okalahoma. She decides she’s going to let Amelia in on her relationship with Trevor.

 

When she exits the bus station at San Antonio she finds a familiar black Ford truck waiting for her.

The way her quietly happy, peaceful heart roars with exuberance and joy makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.

“D’you have fun?” Mike asks her in his usual way (a scowl and a paradoxically pleasant voice)as she hops in.

“Yeah.” She giggles. “How was your trip to LA?”

His face changes. “Fine.”

“Did…?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it, Baker.” He cuts her off.

“Okay.” She says.

“Blip’s been trying to get a hold of you.” He says. “He’s been called up – to the _Padres_.”

“Really? That’s amazing!” Ginny cheers, and punching her fist in the air. “Finally!”

He grins at her excitement. “Yeah, Zimmerman is down with an injury.”

“Oh. Does that mean it’s temporary?”

“Well…” He sighs. “Once you know Sanders there’s no unknowing him.” Mike laughs. “They won’t ever think of sending him back down once they see him deliver.”

She jumps in her seat, whooping loudly, she leans across and thumps Mike’s back.

“Save some of that energy for when they call you up, Rookie!” He chuckles, shaking his head and starting the car.

She sighs and pulls her feet up. He doesn’t reprimand her.

“What?” She gasps.

“What?” He asks.

She points to her feet on her seat. “If you’re letting that slide you must really be in a good mood. Either that – or it’s really bad news.”

“Erm…” He released the parking brake but he doesn’t drive.

“Uh oh! It’s bad news. What? What?”

His forehead wrinkles. “The guys.” He says. “They – they know.”

“Know what?”

He sounds reluctant to speak. “The hottest topic of the hour is you going all the way to Oklahoma for Davis. News travels fast, Baker.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

She shrugs. “Guess I’ll have to deal with it at some point. But - thanks for the headsup, Old Man.”

He cuts the engine, pulls the parking brake and looks at her curiously.

“What?” She smiles. “He’s going to Cal Poly this Fall. I saw his acceptance letter ‘n everything.”

Mike rolls his tongue behind his teeth. “Baker…” His voice sounds tense. He shakes his head like he’s decided against telling her what he wants to tell her.

“Are you – absolutely sure?” He asks, instead. (That's his favourite question when it comes to Trevor, isn't it?)

“Yeah.” She sighs, happily. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Okay.” He nods. “Okay, yeah, sure – why wouldn’t you be?” He echoes.

He’s not mocking her. He sounds anxious. It’s like he’s trying to convince himself on her behalf.

Ginny ignores the expression on his face. She’s happy. She’s entitled to be happy.

It’s long overdue and she’s going to own her happiness.  

 

What an idiot she was.

In two weeks time, she would learn a life-lesson, in the most cruel, hard and painful manner.

That Happiness and Ginny cannot coexist.

(The last time Ginny was happy, a headlight blinded her eyes, Pop’s truck careened, brakes screeched, wheels skidded, the world spun in all directions before it went black.)

Trevor gets traded up to the _Cardinals_. He'd known about being scouted the whole time, but he didn't tell her.

Her plans, her joy, her trust, her relationship, her love – it all implodes in her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sexual tension is my favourite type of tension


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, I'm updating quickly because I want your attention.
> 
> I know several of you read and don't have time/or care for leaving reviews which doesn't give me a chance to know you by name (internet handle) and I respect that. But, I know that if you are reading my work, it means you like Pitch and Bawson as much as I do. I request you to please read my humble [appeal ](http://mikeginsanity.tumblr.com/post/159849778407/an-appeal)and thereafter please participate in this [Campaign by PitchStreetTeam](https://pitchstreetteam.tumblr.com/post/159835959800/urgent-keepherinthegame-home-stretch-plans). 
> 
> The best way I can in my situation contribute to this fandom is via the fic I write that several people have been kind enough to appreciate. It humbles me and makes me want to write more. The interest in Pitch has dwindled on account of no renewal news and a limited number of episodes in the first season making it a very jumpy one. I for one could use more inspiration. So even if you are a lurker, please check out both links. I will be grateful for your contribution.
> 
> Godspeed my friends.
> 
> And now, without further adue: 

In the weeks following her breakup with Trevor, Ginny operates in two modes.

There was one mode that could not be named:  an onslaught of the raging emotions that would burst forth with full force (denial, grief, betrayal, anger, bitterness, frustration - the whole en-fucking-chilada).

A huge Trevor-sized hole in her heart yearned to be filled. It made her miss him, made her _want_ to call him, tried to rationalize what happened on _his_ behalf. It made her vulnerable, filled her with self-loathing. She despised that lonely, pathetic, and miserable part of herself. It stole her hunger, deprived her of self-esteem, destroyed her sense of self-dignity. It made her paranoid, ridiculed her for being so naïve and senseless, for being a terrible judge of people’s characters and their intentions, reminded her that she would never have true friends or true lovers, reiterated that no one could be trusted.

It kept her up all night, tormented her during the day. Above all, it made her miss Pop terribly. She longed to feel his stern, but motivating presence again. Had he been alive, he would admonish her for her foolishness, then reprimand her for the self-pity, then he would tell her to pick herself up and dust herself off.

That mode was a mental snafu that was only manifested in private. She kept it reigned in with the other mode that lasted through practice, games, and commercial commitments. A robot mode: where her emotions were turned off, her face was set in flint, her time and energy was consumed with work. She hung out with the guys for beers, goofed about with them in the clubhouse, faked normalcy to the point of exhaustion.

She endured, endured and _endured_.

The _only_ person with who might have been able to see through it was Mike. He had some version of X-ray vision into her psyche and he was also the _only_ person whose opinion mattered to Ginny. The _only_ reason that she escaped his notice was that he was caught in his own brambles of marital problems and personal shit.

It wasn’t a rift between them as much as the rift around _him_. After that night where he confided his uncertainties about Rachel and after her conversation with Moira, Ginny had accepted that silent brooding was the way he worked things out.

After her breakup with Trevor it wasn’t much of an effort to give him his space. Ginny craved isolation for herself.

So, they didn’t chat unless it involved a trip to the mound, they didn’t talk about anything that wasn’t pertaining to baseball, even their _hi’s_ and _bye’s_ had been reduced to mutually exchanged headnods. It didn’t impact their games. She didn’t wave off his calls and he didn’t change his signs. When he wasn’t travelling to LA or San Diego on his downtime, he was all sulk, mope, avoid and ignore. And at the end of the day, they retreated to their respective caves. Rinse, repeat.

It was cruel to be thankful for another person’s woes, especially that of a close friend. Yet, Ginny found some perverse relief. The _idea_ of his pity was bad, but the prospect of inevitable backhanded ‘I-told-you-so’s…? That was worse.

After all, his ‘Are-you-sure?’s were obviously well-founded warnings that Ginny had stubbornly ignored.

 

* * *

 

“Don’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you cry.”

Ginny looks up from the contract at those words. Her bitchy-face agent doesn’t look so aggressive today. In fact, all the ice-queen, hard-shelled, matronly thing she usually has going on appears to have given way. She wears a gentle, understanding expression on her face.

“Who?” Ginny asks.

“Everyone.” Amelia answers.

Ginny winces resignedly. “How’d you figure it out?”

Amelia tips her chin and returns a sympathetic smirk. “I’m a woman.” She states, as though it’s explanation enough.

And it is.

Ginny sighs and drops the pen. She leans back in the chair and lets the stress show on her face.

“Is it – one of your teammates?” Amelia asks, slowly.

She wonders why Amelia would think that. “No.” Ginny answers with a definitive shake of her head. “But, it’s…another ballplayer.”

Amelia nods pensively. She waits for a few minutes before she poses her next question. “Do you wanna tell me who it is? Or what happened?”

“No.”

“Okay.” Amelia accepts it with a calming smile. She reaches across the desk and pats Ginny’s wrist. “That’s fine.”

“I used to have a code.” Ginny says, feeling her eyes water. “About…not dating ballplayers.”

“And you still have it.” Amelia answers quickly.

Ginny frowns at her in response.

“Breaking it once or twice doesn’t change that.” Amelia reassures. “If anything, take this experience as a lesson for the future. A good enough reason to stick to the code.”

“But who’ll take me seriously after this?” Ginny sobs miserably, tears escaping her eyes. She hastily wipes them off with the heels of her palm.

“Who took you seriously when you started out?” Amelia asks, gently.

Ginny gapes at her.

“Who takes you seriously now?” Amelia prods, grinning at with encouragement. “Ginny,” she emphasizes, “It’s you. _Only you._ You are the person who makes them take you seriously.”

Her words are simple but they are so poignant that it evokes the first semblance of hope in Ginny. Ginny mums her lips to curb her next sob. “Thanks Amelia.” She says.

“It’s my job, G.” Amelia reaches into her bag for a packet of tissues that she slides towards Ginny. “Remember what I always say: what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger.”

Ginny opens the plastic wrapper of tissue packet with shaky hands. Amelia goes to the door of the conference room and locks the door. Then she pours out a cup of coffee. The sound pokes a hole in the dam of tears inside Ginny. She lets them stream until she’s sobbing with her face in her hands.

Amelia doesn’t touch her. She doesn’t even talk to her, patronize her or placate her. She lets Ginny cry, waiting patiently. When Ginny is done, she wipes away her tears, breathing easier. She finds a bottle of water and the cup of coffee placed in front of her, she opts for the water.

“You’re the not only woman with a mission who’s experienced heartbreak, Ginny.” Amelia speaks softly. “But, when a woman’s relationship falls apart, it becomes an excuse for her critics to tear her down, dismiss her abilities, trivialize the hard work. If she fails at her job because of it, she becomes an example of why women are unfit for stressful tasks. If she succeeds despite it, she’s labelled as hard-hearted, haughty, and cold. It’s brutal – but that’s how it is. Doesn’t mean it has to stop us from achieving our dreams.”

Ginny looks at her with amazement. She feels like she’s seeing Amelia for the first time.  

“That’s why what you’re doing is so important.” Amelia says with an assertive nod. “That’s why it’s important that _you_ make it.”

Ginny nods slowly.

“I’ll cancel your schedule for the next three days.” Amelia smiles. “Just focus on your games and get some rest.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.” Ginny sniffles. “It – the work it…keeps my mind of it. Of him.” She looks at her phone. Trevor’s been pestering her with calls and texts for days.

“I think I should change my number.” She adds.

Amelia nods at her with a mix of awe and satisfaction. “I’ll take care of that for you.”

She nods at Amelia gratefully

“Will he be a problem in the future?” Amelia asks. “I mean, there must have been personal correspondences. Do you think he’ll brag about it or try to blackmail you?”

Ginny hadn’t thought of that. She feels like an idiot suddenly. Her correspondences with Trevor were too ‘personal’.

“I – I don’t know.” Ginny sighs.

“The minute he does…” Amelia gives her pointed look. “I’m the person to come to. Right away. Is that clear?”

Ginny nods readily.

 

* * *

 

 

It should come as no surprise that it’s DC who makes an open mockery of her tragedy. When Trevor’s trade to the Cardinals was formally announced and the news circulated rapidly among the minor leaguers, good ol’ DC was there with his reliable assholery, chomping at the bit for an opportunity to taunt her. She looks up from tying her cleats when a shadow falls over her to finds him leering, flashing that shit-eating sneer through his yellow teeth with his bandwagon of minions lurking behind him.

“Just give me one night with you.”

Ginny looks away, rolling her eyes (inwardly consoling herself that feeling embarrassed is normal, that letting it define her was the dangerous bit, that this was expected _…)_

 _Endure, endure, endure_.

She shakes her head and gives him a placid smirk.

“I wanna make it to the show and one night with you can get me there...” He persists.

_Wow._

He deals the final blow. “…it worked for Trevor Davis.”

_And there it is._

“Ooh…” The others jeer.

Ginny takes in a calming breath and hisses it out. She grimaces with faked humour and retorts, “One night with me won’t fix that sorry ass swing of yours DC!”

Some of the guys appreciate her rebuttal, some even whoop and applaud for her. (No one calls him out on his shit, though – reminding her of the cold hard truth: that she will always be an outsider.)

 _Don’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you cry._  Amelia’s words repeats inside her head, while she struggles to keep a straight face. Ginny gathers herself as she stands up. She takes a few steps towards the tunnel and freezes.

Mike is there. He’s in a dirt-stained uniform, a practice bat propped against his shoulder, glaring at a point behind her where DC should be.

She had mistakenly assumed that Mike hadn’t arrived yet because DC wasn’t just a colossal dickhead, he was also a colossal wimp. He was petrified of Mike and wouldn’t have the balls to slant her in their Captain’s presence. Now she wonders why she’d made such a stupid presumption. Mike always arrived earlier than everyone else. Just because he was licking his wounds didn’t mean he skipped the work. Baseball always came first for him.

(The hard, unyielding countenance, the way that furry beard moves with his masticating jaw...)

‘Livid’ would be an underestimation.

“Baker, Bob wants to speak to you.” Mike says, evenly, crossing past her without even glancing at her.

Ginny walks out, headed in the direction of Bob’s office, but at the turn of the corridor, she stops to look back. Even though, Mike is shorter and stockier than DC, the younger player looks daunted. He takes a step back at first and then rallies. He holds his ground by crossing his arms across his chest and baits Mike by a firm jut of his jaw.

Mike flips the bat in his hand till the knob is faced upwards. From the angled view of his face, she sees the tail ends of forehead furrows materialise on his temple. She can legitimately visualize the look he’s giving DC. She can picture his eyebrows lifting, the vein throbbing on his temple, the clench of his jaw, that icy-hot expression in his eyes and the unmasked threat written all over his face.

DC’s face wavers.

Ginny would have called him out on all the white-knight shit. God knows, the hostile testosterone powered energy vibrating in the air is reason enough for her to hiss and stomp. But, before she can open her mouth, DC gets bratty. He opens his mouth, undoubtedly ready to make some crass insinuation.

But, no words come out.

Mike taps the knob of the bat on DC’s sternum before he can speak. In the dead silence of the clubhouse, the soft knock of wood on bone is an audible warning – for everyone.

“You ever talk to a teammate like that again.” Mike grinds out in a low but clear voice. “Your swing won’t be the only worthless thing about you.”

DC’s fish mouth snaps shut and his throat bobs.

Ginny turns her body in the direction of Bob’s office. She rubs her eyebrows and decides to let it go.

She’s just exhausted, keeping up her unaffected, steady façade. She doesn’t have the energy to roar at her friend and struggle with her personal humiliation at the same time. As she walks to Bob’s office she makes a mental note to give Lawson an earful on how she doesn’t need anyone to fight her battles. But, later.

For now, she’ll allow herself a momentary reprieve in not having to fight this one.

 

 

* * *

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

It’s the first non-game related sentence he’s spoken to her in twenty-four hours. He didn’t say a word after the previous day’s events. He didn’t say a word on the bus to the airport. He didn’t say a word in the lounge as they waited to board the plane for the away games at Hartford. When he handed her the boarding pass, she realized that they’re both seated together right up front - away from the others. He waited till they are up in the air before he broke the silence.

(His voice was deep, soft and gentle.)

Ginny has a few choice answers she can give: ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Or, ‘It’s none of your business.’ Or, ‘I’m handling it.’ Or, ‘You looked like you were working through your own problems, I didn’t want to bother you.’ Or, ‘ _Now,_ you wanna talk? Forty thousand feet in the air?’

Or…

“You didn’t ask.” She says, keeping a check on the sourness in her tone.

“Must I?” He asks, in a tone so dismal, it makes her want to cry.

She glances at him and finds him staring out the window, his beard bobbing furiously like swallowing away the urge to look at her. His hands are clenching and opening, inching towards her and then back towards his body. It’s like he’s afraid to touch her. Ginny swallows the lump in her throat and forces the tears to retreat behind her eyes.

Then, he shifts closer, positions his shoulder in way that is too familiar. It’s his way of offering consolation and her body is automatically drawn in. She leans towards him, sliding lower in the seat so she can drop her head on his shoulder. A silence comes over them in which she hears the whirring sound of the plane engine and the clinking sounds from the food cart and the hushed chatter of their other teammates in the rows behind. 

“I figured you would come to me when there was trouble." He explains, when her cheekbone touches his deltoid. "You only talk about your problems when _you_ want to, Baker. Not when I ask.”

And he’s right. And, it’s so unfair that he knows her so well.

He snorts bitterly in the silence. That irritates her. “’Cause I’m the annoying little duckling, right?” She hisses, pulling her head back to look at him.

“And I’m the fuckin’ mother duck. So what?” He snaps, jerking his head at her. His eyes are misty, the whites are almost red. It feels like there’s a storm brewing in them that threatens to overwhelm her. “Lord knows, you’re never shy to chew my ear off at a moment’s notice for everything else. Why should this have been any different?”

Ginny can’t look away while he bores a hole into her eyes. Tears form under her eyelids. She gulps and looks away. She drops her head over his shoulder. “Aren’t you gonna say ‘I told you so’?” She asks, aware of how her voice is wavering.

“Is that what you thought I would say?” He sounds choked up. “Is that how big an asshole you think I am?”

Ginny doesn’t quite know how to answer that. (Of course, he isn’t. Why did she ever think something so terrible of him?)

“You knew he was being scouted, didn’t you?” She whimpers, no longer concerned with the tears slipping down her cheeks. “All this time, you knew.”

“No.”

She tilts her chin and looks up at him. He glances at her, gets a pained expression after which he looks away. “For chrissakes Rookie, don’t cry!” He chides softly. “It freaks me out.”

A small, snuffle of a laugh breaks out of her. She wipes her cheeks, pulls her feet up to rest her knees on the seat in front of her and adjusts herself so she can snuggle into him. She feels the weight of overwhelming heartache leave her shoulders. It feels like he’s siphoning out this inflamed abscess of darkness that had been festering inside. She’s left a sense of peace and acceptance.

She doesn’t care that he’s married right now.  She just wants to be selfish, take from him whatever he offers. (And he’s allowing it – so whatever).

“I loved him.” She whispers.

“I know.”

“I never loved anyone like that.” She feels the need to confess. “Never tried to.”

He doesn’t say anything for a while. “When was the last time you slept properly?” He asks after a long silence.

“I don’t remember.”

“We’ve got four-ish hours…you wanna try?”

She doesn’t _need_ to ‘try’. His bicep under her cheek is the only pillow _and_ impetus she needs to topple into the abyss. She rests in his aura and scent more than on his body.  Her fatigue-heavy, swollen eyelids close instantly.

“You had to have known he was being scouted,” she murmurs, drowsily. “You were cautioning me, remember? The whole time.”

“I didn’t know _he_ was being scouted, Baker.” He sighs. She feels his minty breath over her forehead. “I only knew that _you_ were.” He adds, sombrely.

Tears stream down her cheek. Her brain is all muddled, with  dreams and thoughts all jumbling into one. She’s seeing Pop, Trevor, Mike – all at once.

“What if I never make it to the majors, Mike?” She mumbles. “What if all of this is for nothing?”

“Hang in there, Rookie.” His voice echoes through. He sounds a lot surer than she feels. “It’s just a matter of time.”

 

* * *

 

 

She needs to scream.

There’s only one place she can do it which won’t result in a 911 call from someone in her vicinity.

Ginny’s coping as best she can under the circumstances. Mike went straight to LA after the away series. Ginny didn’t have a start for any of the remaining games so there wasn’t any thing to distract her. And whenever Mike is absent, the whispers and snide remarks escalate. Most of her teammates gossip about her in front of her. Several of them just keep propositioning her along the same crude lines as DC had. She's reluctant to tell Amelia because her agent would swoop in and make things worse.

Ginny runs up the hill that she and Mike used to trek together. She breaks into a doleful trudge halfway to the top because her legs feel as wobbly as her resolve.  Tears and sweat mix together. The promise of solitude is the only thing she can depend on to get her up there.

She chugs her way to the spot where she hopes to scream her lungs out at the setting sun, only to find that she’s not alone.

“Mike?” She wheezes, sticking her tongue out, breathing a lungful, bracing her waist.

Something about the way he stands over the far edge of the peak that overlooks the ballpark, with his shoulders hunched and his head drooping makes her forget about her inner turmoils. He doesn’t turn, but from the way his bent head rises, she knows he’s heard her. A bitterly resigned, blatantly sardonic chortle escapes him. He mutters something inaudible, shaking his head.

She recuperates her breath and starts jogging towards him. She unwittingly skids to a halt when he lifts a palm out, staring at the back of his hand. “When did you get back from LA?” She pants.

“This morning.” He sounds – hollow.

“I didn’t see you at the game.” She huffs, bending down to curb the wave of nausea that comes from running on an all-day diet of nothing but grape soda, ramen and popcorn.

“Yeah.”

Ginny straightens up when he says that. Something’s very wrong.  “Mike?”

He turns around slowly. She spots a large bottle of scotch that’s almost empty. His eyes are puffy and his face it’s…

Ginny forgets herself, forgets what she's dealing with. “What happened?” She goes forward feeling alarmed. He isn’t looking _at_ her as much as he’s looking _through_ her.

“You need to leave Baker.” He says, directing his gaze at a point near her shoes.

“Mike?” She steps forward. He steps back, lifting his free palm up, again. An obvious gesture of 'don't come any closer'. He still won’t meet her eyes.

“Baker…I’m not fucking around.” He hisses. “You need to leave.”

“Why?”

His eyes connect with hers. Ginny almost buckles under the fierceness she sees in them. There’s something spiteful and so, so negative. It something she’s never seen in him before.

“Because I say so.” He bites out, lifting the the bottle to his lips. “ _Rookie_.” Then he empties the rest of the bottle into his trap.

She shakes her head. “Mike, I’m not gonna…”

“For _once_ in your life!” He roars, hissing as he pulls the empty bottle away. “You need to stop questioning me, stop interrupting me and stop following me around!” He sucks in a deep breath and points in a random direction. “Leave!”

“You’re not my captain here! This isn’t the clubhouse!” She shouts back. “If you wanna be alone, _you_ leave!”

Ginny shrieks when glass explodes next to her. Dust and splinters fly in all directions, some even smarting at her calves. He flung the bottle on the ground, shattered it to a million pieces. The menacing look on his face may suggest that he wanted to throw it at her, but the carefully considered distance where it landed also makes it clear that it was deliberately thrown to frighten her with no intention of hurting her. He's just mad - furious.

“Fine!” He marches across. “I’ll leave.”

“Mike!” She cries. Her hand latches to his forearm as he stalks past. It doesn’t stop him. Instead, Ginny gets dragged along with him. She digs her heels, uses both hands and all her strength to apply a stopping counterforce.

“What happened?” She screams. “Mike! Is it Rachel? Mike, c’mon! We’re _friends_! Talk to me! _Please!_ ”

He shoves her off and she stumbles back.

Ginny feels the weight of a thousand heartbreaks when she looks at his face. It hurts more than the lingering shock of Trevor’s betrayal.

“She cheated?” Ginny whispers.

His face hardens.

“Mike, I’m so…”

“She’s cheat _ing_!” He bites out. “Present continuous.”

Ginny covers her mouth. He drops his head.

“Mike, I’m –”

“Don’t be!” He spits. His eyes glisten and the whites turn red. “I deserve it.”

“Deserve it?” Ginny’s incredulous. “What the – what are you talking about?”

His face changes. He looks he’s guilty. He shakes his head and looks away.

“Nobody deserves that!”

“I did!" He asserts. "I do!”

“How?”

“I – I don’t know! I’m just – I do! It’s payback, retribution – karmic retaliation or whatever!”

“For what?

He looks at her long and hard.  “For you.” He mumbles.

Ginny blinks.

“Wh-what?”  She echoes.

He steps forward. “It has to be you…” He whispers with a blank expression on his face. “What else can it be?”

“What did I do?” She growls.

“You didn’t do anything!” He barks. “It’s me!” He jabs his thumb at himself. “All me – always me! I have a good thing going for me and then as always…I find a way to screw it up!”

“Mike, _what_ are you talking about?” She shouts. “What did you screw up?”

He covers his face with his palm and shakes his head. “Nothing!” He mutters. “Nothing, just forget I said anything, ‘kay.” He scrubs his beard, huffs out a couple of breaths that reek of whiskey and then whirls around.

Ginny stares at his back as he starts walking towards the path they usually take on the way down. He walks a few steps, then spins around suddenly, marches back towards her.

“I go home – to see my _wife_.” He says, as he advances. “And _he’s_ there! In _my_ house! My home! That house - where we were supposed to raise a family!"

The pain in his voice makes her insides quake.

"I didn’t catch them in bed or anything!" He scoffs. "She _invited_ him. She was waiting for me – to tell me on my fucking face.” He clucks his tongue, and snorts vehemently. “He’s some – doctor – some really great, really smart, really _amazing_ guy!” Mike adopts a harsh, mimicking tone. “He gets her! He _understands_ her! He makes her… _happy_! It didn’t start out as an affair.” Mike starts to laugh sarcastically. “No, it was a friendship…! It was an emotional _connection_.”

“And _that’s_ your fault?” She exclaims in disbelief. “That you’re – not a doctor?”

“Well, to be fair, I didn’t even go to college!” He rumbles.

“You two were together for years before y’all married! You’re telling me she didn’t know that about you then? Fuck! Mike! That’s the stupidest shit I’ve heard!” Ginny drops her head into her palms, rubbing her teary eyes with the heels of her hand. She pictures her mother laughing while Kevin embraces her. The next thing she pictures is Trevor and the joy on his face when he told her he was traded up. 

When she drags her head up, Mike is looking at her with pitiful expression in his eyes and a wry, cruel smirk across his lips. “Thing is, Baker…” He says. “I can’t bring myself to hate her for it. I can’t." He shakes his head.

"Because you love her." Ginny reasons.

"No, Baker." He lets out that bitter mocking laugh again. " _Because_ I’m no better." He sounds like he's mocking himself. "I’ve known it…all _along_. And if things had been…” He furrows his brow like he’s racking his brain around for the word, “ _conducive_ – I would have cheated on her.”

“What?” Ginny huffs. “Mike that’s preposterous! You’re not that sort of man.”

“No, Baker!” He scrubs his face and runs his hands through his hair. “I’m _exactly_ that sort of man.”

“So, what?” Ginny snorts. “You’re saying if you’d had a chance you might have cheated on her with a groupie. Newsflash, Cap! You’ve had plenty of chances and it didn’t happen! I know it didn’t!”

“Not a groupie, _Ginny_!” Mike bellows. “With you.”

_What? Whatwhatwhat?_

Ginny gasps and steps back.

He squeezes his eyes and tips his chin downwards. He lifts both palms up like he’s offering a surrender, walking back two steps putting some distance between them. “I told you," He says, slowly. "It’s not you, Baker. It’s me.”

Ginny shakes her head, confused.

He looks up at her with watery eyes. “It’s the fact that this whole time, ever since I've known you…” He croaks, with a shamed look on his face. “I _preferred_ spending more time with you than her. It's the fact that, I would rather listen to your feminista rants _all day_ than spend five minutes listening to her analysis of a baseball transaction. When I was with her, I was missing you.” He snorts cynically. “It’s the fact that I was with my _wife_  but I wanted to be with you.”

Ginny’s covers her mouth again...stunned.

He rubs his eyes and shakes his head, looking at the sky. “If you had looked at _me_ the way you looked at Davis..." He snorts. "Fuck! With even a tenth of what you felt for him, Ginny! I-I- I cannot, honest-to-God, deny that I would have crossed the line.” He looks at her pointedly. “For you. With you. _Only_ you.”

A sob hitches through her breath.

“So, yeah.” He states in a defeated, self-depreciating tone. “I am _that_ guy. That depraved, spineless, _unscrupulous_ husband…whose wife may have cheated on him, sure...” he shrugs “but only because I didn’t cheat first!”

He sighs and steps forward when she continues to stare at him aghast. “I’m also that _dick_ – who can’t be a proper friend or a proper teammate. I’m that selfish asshole, telling you about his twisted, sick, feelings for you – _knowing_ that you’re still hurting over Davis."

Something inside is short-circuiting, malfunctioning. She's numb.

A solitary tear slips out his right eye. “How can I find fault with her when I'm worse?” He pleads, softly. “That  _has_ to be why karma or fate or whatever’s up there – might have chosen _this_ exact punishment for me, right? To teach me what it feels like to be wronged by someone closest to me.”

He winces at her. He lifts a hand to her face and brushes her cheek with his knuckles. The touch is brief and Ginny's body is anesthetized. She doesn't feel it. He drops his hand to his side quickly. “Now I’ve screwed this up too.” He whispers, looking at her forlornly. “Because – that’s what I do.”

He shakes his head for some time, like he’s reprimanding himself. He flings his arms up in the air in defeat, spins around and trudges away - disappears down the hill.

And Ginny is left behind, shocked and speechless, gaping in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how was that for drama?


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all who read my appeal and have contributed to the PST's efforts.  
> I know things are dismal but I'm just sending vibes of positivity and believing that our efforts are better than whatever Michael Aussielo says.  
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> Remember we ain't done nothin' yet.

_“With you. For you._ Only _you.”_

Mike said, _some_ things.

_But, Mike’s wife cheated on him. Like Mom cheated - on Pop._

 

Ginny remembers that moment clear as day, the zippy excitement with which she cycled home, bursting with the news. (She _wanted_ to go for the dance, she was _choosing_ the dress!) She dropped the bike over the front-yard grass, hopped over the steps and reached the knob of the screen door and then –

Mom was there - with a man, who was not Pop.

She was smiling and laughing at him, like she no longer smiled at Pop.

The first thought Ginny had was that he was a close cousin. And, it was all good, until, the _guy_ took her in his arms, and kissed her on the lips in very un-cousinly fashion.

Everything froze.

Ginny remembers an odd mix of mind-numbing denial in the hour that followed. She remembers nothing of the hours after that. She _thinks_ she went for baseball practice, she _thinks_ she came home after.

Pop and Mom were doing their usual thing of _not_ -talking to each other that evening. Ginny remembered wondering if she was the only one who felt the invisible intruder in their home, the lingering spectre of that guy.

She eavesdropped on her parent’s taciturn exchanges, hoping for a discussion of the afternoon visitor. Something that would _allow_ Ginny to tell herself that she imagined the whole thing. That her mind had been playing tricks on her. That the guy ( _Kevin_ , she would learn by surreptitiously using the parallel line to listen on her mother’s phone chats) was no more than a friend.  She looked for signs of guilt on Mom’s face, hoping that it was just a one-time thing – an aberration, a slip, a folly. There was none.

Ginny picked up her glove around the time Pop was done drinking coffee without prompting. Cold fury fuelled her arm and indescribable spite carried the ball. There was perfection in her aim and precision in her throw.

Even Pop was impressed, and that was saying a lot.

She brushed everything else under a carpet of singlemindedness. Baseball would define everything else thereafter. There was something simple and uncomplicated about the game. It gave her direction, gave her purpose. It carried her through Pop’s death.

It carried her to the minors.

Later in life, Ginny would look at her parents and consider her role in it all. She frequently wondered if _this_ was the price of accomplishing the extraordinary. She believed wholeheartedly that Mom loved Pop and their family on some uncommunicable level (that had to be why her mother stayed all these years). Through the heated arguments and cold wars between her parents, Ginny lived with the nagging feeling of being the cause of a fracture in that relationship. Maybe Pop’s priorities changed because of Ginny’s talent, and maybe Mom loved him a little less because of Ginny’s dream. Maybe the rejection they both felt grew each day. Maybe Pop focussed too much on her and maybe Mom felt no reason to hold on.

 

Ginny pictures Mike stepping into his presumably opulent home at LA, bone-tired from the gruelling game against Hartford and an uncomfortable red-eye flight. She can visualize him doing the things he does when he’s tired (things she’s learned by observation) - rubbing his eyes, scratching that god-awful beard, and rough sighs that are a mix of exhaustion and relief. Above all, looking forward to greet his wife.

She pictures the gorgeous Rachel Patrick (as she knows her from TV), waiting on him with an admission and – with another man in his house.

Weeks of doubts, anxieties, and perplexities all a wasted suffering in the light of the penultimate confirmation of his wife’s infidelity.

(Did he lose it? Did he shut down? Did he scream at her? Did he just turn around and walk away? Did he bury it under the compartments of regrets and broken dreams? Was the plan to keep it repressed and _try_ to function?)

Mike said, some _things_.

They were senseless things – the things he said.

Betrayal, adultery – such forbidding, terrifying words.

If a simple teenage mind could assign blame to herself in the face of her parents’ marital problems, then why couldn’t an older, complex man like Mike feel responsible for his wife falling out of love with him. Why would he not have considered it punishment?

He was a responsible man, a devoted husband. Seeing his wife with another man –

_(It’s payback, retribution – karmic retaliation or whatever!”)_

 

What would have happened if Pop had come home early that day instead of her and seen Kevin? Would he have flown into a rage? Would they have ended up like one of those families on the nightly news? ( _Bill Baker dragged Kevin Whatshislastname out, beat the living daylights out of him with the brand-new baseball bat that he bought for his pitcher daughter whose major-league dreams were the ultimate source of dispute between husband and wife. Finally, he turned on Janet…)_

Ginny shudders as her imagination takes flight. The visuals are terrifying. She pushes them away - unable to imagine it.

So yeah. Mike _said_ , some things.

A wounded animal, snarling, gnawing at himself, lashing out at everyone around him.

He was drunk, chaotic, confused; in ten different kinds of agony. Struggling with the repercussion of an unbearable reality, reeling from the shockwave of a betrayal that was executed so cruelly and sounded deliberate. He was steeped in the one thing she never imagined him capable of:  self-reproach. Mike blamed himself and Ginny could see it.

 (He looked at her, though, like a dying man coming to terms with a painful and horrific end. He looked at her like she was the source of both agony and hope. _“With you.”_ He said. “ _For you_.” He said. “ _Only you_.” He said.)

_He didn’t mean those things. He’s just in pain. He’s hurting for - Rachel._

The least she can do, she decides, is absolve him of accountability of those irrevocable words. Try to forget that he ever said them.

 

But he’s gone.  _He’s gone._

“What?” Ginny echoes, staring at the empty cubby.

“Yeah, they removed the sanctions. He’s been called back up to the _Padres_.” Bob tells her, unaffected by her shocked expression. “’bout damn time…” Bob snorts. “Luongo’s off for this season and they’re lacking direction as it is.”

(But, but, but…

They were supposed to start over. There was supposed to be some awkwardness. Uncomfortable headnod salutations. He was supposed to avoid her. She was supposed to corner him at the earliest chance.

“Hey, forget about last night.” She was supposed to tell him. “I know you didn’t mean all that. It’s cool. Are you okay?”

He was supposed to do his usual grumpy, starey thing and nod or maybe not nod.

“You and I are friends, Old Man.” She was supposed to reassert. “We’re good.”

They were supposed to reset, find a new level of normal.)

“I – I – don’t understand!” Ginny whispers.

Bob looks up at her from the roster. For the first time since she’s known him, she sees something of a friendly expression on his face. He leans back in the chair. “That’s what life is like in professional league baseball, Baker.” He says, assuming she’s ignorant (which she’s not). “One minute you’re laughing with your teammate in the dugout, next minute he’s half way ‘cross the country. You better get used to it.”

“Did – did he come by this morning?” Ginny asks.

“This morning? He was in LA. Why would he come here?”

But, she just saw him yesterday. ( _“I told you, it’s not you.”_ He had said. _“It’s me.”)_

“I saw him last night.” She blurts.

“Maybe in a dream, you did.” Bob chuckles at his own joke. When he sees the look on her face, he regroups. “The decision was made two days ago. He was expected to show up at San Diego this morning – his flight should be landing any minute.”

“But - he didn’t say….”  

( _“It’s the fact that I was with my wife – I wanted to be with you”_ He had said _._ “… _I cannot, honest-to-God, deny that I would have crossed a line.”_ He had said. _“For you. With you. Only you.”)_

She clears her throat. “He didn’t say anything.” _Not even a ‘good bye’._

“Yeah that’s how it works. He left a message on my voicemail.” Bob says, frowning at her. “One of his _people_ are coming by to vacate his service-apartment and clear his stuff.”

He had to have known. He had to have known he was being called back. He had to have known while he was up there on that hill. But, then why didn’t he didn’t tell her?

He was aggrieved. Yes. Maybe he wasn’t thinking straight.

But that didn’t explain why didn’t he just _call_ this morning – even leave a text.

Ginny squeezes her eyes and goes to her cubby. She remembers his hand rubbing her cheek. She can’t remember the sensation against her skin. She was too – dazed.

Did he _plan_ to leave without saying good bye? Was that his plan all along?  Did he come all the way to San Antonio, drink away his troubles on that hill and then take off the next morning without her ever knowing?

Was her interruption the anomaly there? The premature blow that forced his illogical, unreasonable, cracked-up thoughts into the open, unleashing his confused emotions, forcing him to do the one thing he absolutely _hated_ : express them.

_(“Now I’ve screwed this up too.” He whispered. “Because – that’s what I do.”)_

Now he’s gone.

_Gone.Gone.Gone_

 

* * *

She was done.

(She’s done checking her phone ten times an hour to see if she’s missed a call or a text. She’s done having her occasional calls cut and sending the 'hows it going' texts from her end, offering him an exemption. She’s done wondering why he doesn’t take it. She's done wondering if he really ever cared about her.)

She’s not going to let it get to her. If she can manfully (and how is that for a patriarchal word?) face the shit-piles of sexism and judgey ‘what a slut’ looks in the eyes of teammates who’ve known her longer than him, she can sure as hell _ignore_ his complete disregard of the basic rules of friendship.

 _This is a setback._ She tells herself repeatedly. _Nothing more. It’s a failed pitch, a lost game. It’s the same as being side-lined for being a girl, the sexual innuendo, being labelled an inconvenience, the discrimination, it’s not making the first drafts, it’s not making the final drafts, it’s…._

_...Pop’s death, Jordan leaving town, it’s Blip moving up, it’s Trevor’s…._

_It’s not the same._ Another voice protests. _It’s Mike_... 

_MikeMikeMike._

He _could_ have texted her, after. Even a perfunctory: _“hey Baker, sorry I left without saying goodbye. Keep in touch.”_ would suffice.

That _could_ have worked for her. Right? That _would_ have worked for her.

She’d have closure.

Ignore and endure. That’s how she’s going to cope. That’s how she is going to deal with it. That’s how she used to cope before he came into her life (only to turn it into this constant dramedy) and it’s how she’s going to deal after he’s gone.

Closure is overrated, she decides.  _Endurance is key_

_Endure, Ginny. Endure, endure, endure._

And Ginny operates in bot-mode for the rest of the season. 

 

Even though she had a good run, the overall _Missions_ performance was pathetic. It paralleled the San Diego _Padres_ disastrous performance this year _._ Lawson’s reintegration into the parent team brought them a reprieve towards the end, and for a minute there it seemed they might have made the Wild Card but at the end of the day it was just winning battles, to lose the war.

The end of September rolls by and just as she’s about to finalize her contracts for South American leagues when she’s informed that she’s been selected to play for some high-profile fundraising series at Petco Park in San Diego. Bob explained some complicated policies that she didn’t process. It was a temporary thing, something about a friendly series for Breast Cancer Month.

Amelia seems all excited about it. Apparently, she had been yapping all about negotiations with the MLB for weeks. (Oddly enough, Ginny couldn’t recollect a word.) Uber-wealthy sponsors were involved which didn’t just mean endorsements, it meant that Ginny would get noticed in a larger arena.

The minute her selection was announced tickets to the Petco Park sold like hot cakes.

“You know what this means? They’ll have to take you seriously!” She squeals (and Amelia _doesn't_ squeal).

Ginny should be excited but she isn’t.

Blip calls her next. He offers her the spare room in their new house (actually, he just instructs her to stay with him, rather than the Omni where Amelia’s putting her up). She listens to him ramble on about players selected for the game.  How she was the only one from double-A, but two others were taken from triple A including Andy Carter. How the Front Office overlooked Walker for her. He moves on to stories about his new Yorkshire terrier and Ginny tries to pay attention despite the growing wave of discontent until she finally blurts Lawson’s name.

“How is he?” She asks, when there’s a sudden silence across the other end in response.

 _“Grumpy, more than the usual_.” Blip answers tersely. _“Did something happen down there?”_

“Why?”

_“He’s just – he’s very distant ‘s all. Players here say he’s less social than he used to be.”_

“He left so quickly. We haven’t gotten a chance to speak since.”

“ _Hmm_.”

“Blip?”

“Maybe he’s missing me.” She comments wryly, thankful that Blip can’t see the helpless irritation on her face.

There’s a strange silence on the phone.

“Blip?

“ _Hmm_.”

“I’m joking.”

“ _Mmhmm_.”

“Blip?”

 _“I know he’s havin’ troubles at home._ ” Blip says.

Ginny doesn’t say anything.

 _“But you already knew that._ ” Blip’s voice is devoid of emotion.

“It’s not my place to know about his home troubles”

“ _Mmhm_.” Blip doesn’t sound convinced. _“I’ll see you soon, Ginny.”_

 

* * *

_“ Can we please talk about something else?”_

_“Mike! Why are you avoiding the question?”_

Lawson looks frustrated. He starts scratching his well combed beard. The chubby looking manager of the _Padres_ who’s sitting by his side, looks bored.

They’re comparing this charity thing to an All-Star game now. She doesn't know why. Ever since her selection had been announced everyone’s questioning why she hasn’t as yet been called up to the majors.

_“Sheila, why don’t you ask me some questions about me once in a while huh? I’m beginning to think you don’t care about me anymore.”_

‘Sheila’ is not amused.  _“Mike, you can avoid the question all you want, I’m still gonna ask.”_

_“Well I got nothin’ to say. The only person I wanna talk about is myself.”_

_“You always wanna talk about yourself.”_

_“Exactly!”_

_“That’s…bu(_ bleeeeep!)” Sheila looks as frustrated at Mike. She recovers with an apologetic expression. “ _You’ve got nothing to say, Mike? All accounts suggest that you and Ginny Baker are friendly. You were her catcher! Exclusively! You’re telling me you’ve got no insight?”_

_“I think that using cocoa butter on my beard makes it softer. How’s that for an insight?”_

_“Mike, it’s the question on everyone’s mind. Why are you avoiding it? Is it because you don’t believe women have a future in major league baseball? Do you believe that Ginny Baker doesn’t have what it takes to make it? Is she just a model for Baseball Barbie and nothing more?”_

He starts guffawing with a sarcastic and unpleasant grimace. Al Luongo rubs his face, looking regretful about something.

_“Al?”_

_“I thought you brought me on to talk about the Padres performance this season, Sheila.”_ Luongo responds. _“So, I’m gonna go with ‘no comment’.”_

Lawsons suddenly sits forward and then drums the table. “ _What if I tell you there’s a great pitcher down on the farms? He’s a bit of a lightweight. Not really the best with fastballs but he’s dedicated, works insanely hard. He's crafty on a mound. Packed with positive energy. He’s level headed and doesn’t let anything get in his way. He’s ballplayer. Straight up. Probably came out of the womb pitchin’!”_

The interviewer looks intrigued. Al Luongo perks up and looks curious.

_“Are you talking about Walker or Bellman? You’re saying he deserves to be called up in place of Ginny Baker?”_

_“Would you accuse me of favouring him because he’s my friend? Or would you accuse me of bias just because I’d favour him over a girl?”_

_“No.”_

_“Are you sure?”_ Mike’s face is unreadable. “ _I’m gonna hold you accountable to that.”_

_“Yeah of course. Who is this guy?”_

_“Good.”_ Mike says, nodding, his lips disappearing under his beard. He jabs his pointer finger into the air in Sheila’s direction. _“I want you to take everything I said – and replace the ‘he’ with a ‘she’.”_

There’s a lull. Al Luongo looks confused.

 _“Baseball Barbie? Are you kidding me, Sheila?”_ Mike looks at the interviewer in the eye with that same sharp gaze he throws at Ginny whenever he thinks she’s getting sloppy. “ _Baker, works harder than anyone else. She sacrifices twice as much than any other player out there!”_ He lets out a disgruntled snort. “ _It’s not up to me to tell you how good she is. You wanna know if she’s good enough, Sheila, don’t ask me! Go see her play!”_

Amelia starts snorting. “Oh-ho my god!”

“What?” Ginny says, feeling nothing but the mounting agitation she’s been having ever since she saw Mike’s face on the TV. (And it’s just _seeing_ him that’s getting to her. He’s wearing a deep blue suit and a tie and his beard is all manicured and he looks so – _Dammit!_ )

Amelia points to ‘Sheila’ staring directly into the camera. “This is live.” Amelia says. “The producer is probably so stunned that they’ve forgotten to switch the camera. It’s going to get edited in the repeat broadcast but …oh my god!” Amelia looks jubilant.

 _“Through the years, I’ve seen a lot of players come and go.”_   Lawson shakes his head. “ _Never met one like Baker. And it’s not because she’s a woman. It’s because of what she’s doing, what she has to take on. She kinda - blows me away.”_

Lawson huffs out and shakes his head. He seems exasperated with himself. As though the words were an unplanned outburst. The interviewer looks stunned. Luongo looks like he’s hearing these words the first time.

 _“Let me tell you something."_   Mike raps his hand on the table gently just as the interviewer recovers and looks like she’s going to pose another question. “ _This girl – this_ woman _! She’s a gamer. A total gamer. Doesn’t matter what you throw at her she gets right back up. A hell of a lot stronger than I am – that’s for sure.”_

“Turn it off!” Ginny cries.

“Ginny!” Amelia’s grinning from ear to ear. “Are you kidding me! You can’t buy this kind of PR! You can’t plan this! This is real, it’s hardcore! This is exactly what….!”

Ginny curses and grabs the remote and jabs the power button.

“Ginny!” Amelia scolds.

“I don’t wanna hear it, ‘kay!” Ginny shouts.

Amelia crosses her arms and narrows her eyes at Ginny. “Is it him?”

“What?”

“The guy who broke your heart. Is it Mike Lawson?”

“What?” Ginny gets infuriated. “No! Are you crazy? Why would it be him?”

Amelia narrows her eyes at Ginny, watching her pensively.

Ginny glares at her until she backs off, with a cool, defensive gesticulation.

 

* * *

 

Trevor, Mike.

One broke her heart, the other one broke her spirit.

It was easier getting over Trevor. Knowing that Trevor _used_ her, whether deliberately or unwittingly – it was irrelevant. He presumed he was entitled to parts of her that she hadn’t freely given. For all his care, support and solidarity, maybe even love - there was ulterior intention.

Mike was different. Mike was her friend. They shared a bond on a deeper level that Ginny couldn’t quite put into words. It was purposeless, their relationship - in a good way. There was no ulterior goal. They were friends on a pure, unadulterated level.

(So, what if she dreamt about him in a more-than-friendly way. So, what if she day dreamed about that beard over her mouth or maybe lower. So, what if she imagined what his solid bulk would be over hers – or inside her. That was her problem!)

His absence hurt like a bitch. It more than just ‘hurt’. It was worse than Jordan moving away, it was worse than what Trevor did, it was just – worse. (There’s no other way to describe it.) It’s like someone had ripped her pitching arm out it’s socket and her heart got dragged out of her body in the process.

The fact that he left without even as much as a goodbye – that was worse than ‘worse’.

 _That_ felt like a betrayal.

(So, his wife cheated, so, he was called back to San Diego, so he said something some stupid things…

So _what?_

She was a big girl. She didn’t need great parting words or clarifications or reaffirming speeches or emotional farewells.

But leaving without a simple goodbye?

That’s not how friendship works.)

 

* * *

 

“We're playing the Cardinals?” Ginny echoes, looking at the team roster.

 _Trevor Davis, Memphis Reds_. _Trevor’s on the opposing team._

“There a problem with that, Miss Baker?” Al Luongo looks up at her with irritation. He gives her that same unhappy look that every manager of every team she’s joined has given her. That: _I didn’t want you here. I had no choice in the matter. Now, what am I supposed to do with a girl pitcher?_ Look.

Ginny knew that Luongo was on a leave of absence for the 2014 season. Yet, here he was, managing the team for a charity series with the rotund assistant manager is standing deferentially in the corner, giving her disapproving looks.

“No Skip.” She answers hurriedly.

Of course, unlike other managers who merely brushed her off or dumped her welcome on another player, Luongo personally escorts her to a little closet-like room. He gives her a grumpy apology at first and opens the door. To Ginny’s surprise she finds it set up as a cubby.

“It’s the only space I found with a door.” He mutters, still scowling at her like she’s a major inconvenience. He points to a door on the opposite side of the corridor. “The bathroom isn’t attached, I’m afraid, but the shower works and at least it has a lock.”

Ginny’s used to that expression. By habit, she ignores it but what perplexes her is that _this_ was more luxury than she had seen anywhere else. The room was clean, the cubby wasn’t dilapidated and there was a proper chair.

“Did uh…Lawson say something?” She wonders.

“Lawson? About what?” He growls with a nasal twang, giving her that irritated grimace again.

“Erm…nothing, Skip.” She says.

“Speaking of which.” Luongo rubs his balding hairline. “It’s gonna be a media mayhem at BP tomorrow. Lawson wants to get in some one-on-one practice time with you tonight without any distractions. He’s waiting on you at the bullpen. Get changed and meet him there.” He orders.

He shakes his head giving her that frustrated, unhappy, I-don’t-want-you-here look again, waddling off, whilst muttering something under breath about getting old.

 

The park is silent, unoccupied, illuminated by the floodlights. It’s huge, eerie and daunting but there’s a strange loveliness about it's silent expanse. 

If there’s an excitement and thrill to be felt at seeing Petco Park in all its glorious beauty, it’s completely lost on her when she spots him. If there’s supposed to be a change on his countenance when their eyes meet or the slightest display of pleasantry it does not show.

All he does is nod at her like she’s some inconvenience dumped on his grumpy shoulders and gestures for her to follow in to the bullpen.

It’s like they were no more than familiar strangers. Like they weren’t ever friends, ever teammates. Like he wasn’t her friend and guide and she wasn’t his – whatever she was to him. (Comic relief, maybe?).

“Fucking hell! Baker!” He roars across the when her fastball bounces off his face mask. “Are you trying to kill me?”

 _Yes._ But, she doesn’t say it out loud.

She decides she’s going to do what he does. (Chew her fucking wad of gum, tilt her chin, lift her eyebrows and pretend like nothing’s transpired). She almost succeeds in hiding the dare in her eyes when she winds up again. The next one is deliberately low, bounces off the ground in a way manner that the ground absorbs the weight of its force and it ricochets off hitting his knee. 

It’s not enough to cause grievous harm, but god help her she wanted it to.

Mike rises to his feet, flings his facemask off, spitting out his gum – and it’s almost a poetic metaphor to a glimpse of that storm that she's been sensing.

Ginny scuffs her cleats, curses under breath and grabs a couple of balls. Mike starts a slow, intimidating march. She winds up and throws. He ducks that. She winds up and throws again. It rams his shoulder. It doesn’t make him stumble but he stops with surprise. (It had to have hurt – that was at least a seventy-five.)

His face blanks out at first. Then his expression transforms, the acidic vehemence is daunting.

But Ginny’s stark raving angry.

“Baker!” He bellows. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Practicing my lollipop fastball!” She roars back, winding up and throwing again. Mike is prepared for that one, he literally jumps away but continues charging towards her.

She grinds her teeth and flings the next one – artlessly. It bounces off his chest-guard and back-projects in her direction.

She tips her chin up, cranes her neck back when he steps in her space and forces her to walk back. (Back…back…back…) until her spine is shoved up against the deep corner of the bullpen. 

“You could have injured my knee.” Mike blasts. “Permanently.”

“Injured your knee?” She scoffs. “Oh gee! Cap’n! What’s happened to all the - a whiffle ball hurtin’ more than anythin’ I throw?” She sings with sarcasm.

Something terrifying, predatory and dark flashes through his eyes. He cocks his head at her, mocking her with his expression alone. Ginny feels small and powerless.

“Guess you’re right about my aim, huh? It sucks.” She baits. “To be honest, I was aiming for your balls. Or the ones you don’t have.”

“Real mature, Baker, and here I thought you had your shit together.” He quips.

Their breathing is heavy, ragged – ferocious as the tempers that flare between them. She juts her chin out at him stubbornly – daring him to make the next move.

“What do you want?” He jeers as she burns a hole into his beard, because she can’t meet that fierceness in his eyes with one of her own. “You want an apology?  Would that make you feel better? Are you gonna get your head back in it, after?”

“How dare you?” She hisses.

He snorts. “Hey!” He goads. “I’m not the one out to break gender barriers or prove a point here. You are. And if you wanna ruin your chances of being taken seriously as a player then be my guest.”

“How dare you?” She shouts. “How dare you just-!” She shakes her head angrily.

It’s all tumbling out. (He was her confidant, her ally, her catcher. She trusted him with more than just her throws, she trusted him with her secrets, her dignity and if it came to it, she would even trust him with her _life_. Except he wasn’t a ‘friend’, not in the true sense in the word. _No_.)

She’s malfunctioning again. All those repressed emotions and warped feelings…they’re all coming out and stopping just behind her eyes. Threatening to overwhelm her – but they won’t tumble out. If there’s one thing Ginny has a grip on all her life, it’s her tears.

But he sees right through it. (Because he’s _him_ )

“Get it together, Baker!” He grinds his teeth.

“You get it together!” She roars. “You just – just go on ahead and – leave!” She huffs, unable to formulate words to describe the sense of hurt she feels stinging all over her skin.  She glances up and finds the anger in his eyes waning.

She shakes her head and focusses on his dark beard again. “I get it!” She concedes in a softer voice. “We’re ballplayers. We’re professionals and what not. This is how life is supposed to be. I also get that you had your own shit to deal with! Maybe it was easier to make me into the other woman or whatever, blame me for your wife cheating on you.”

“I never did that!” His arms reach out to the wall. She’s trapped by a make-shift cage of burly arms on either side of her. “Don’t you fucking put words in my mouth, Baker!”

Ginny shoves him back before he completes. He stumbles and recoils. “You did exactly that!” She growls.

“I told you – it was me. Not you!” He snarls.

“And so you decided to cut me loose, right?” She spits. “How is that any different from you blaming me?”

His eyes widen.

“You know. What I had with Trevor might have been a mistake, an error of judgement - whatever!” She says. “But you and I? We are - we were a _friendship_. And _you -_ !” She sticks her forefinger into the centre of his chest guard. “You! You reduced _that_ – reduced _me_ into a mere distraction! You treated me no better than you would one of your groupies! And that’s not fair! That's worse than my teammates looking at me as just being just boobs and an ass and everything that comes with it! That's just...worse!”

He staggers back a step.

“How dare you? How dare you put that on me? How dare you fuck with my mind like that?”

“What do you want from me?” He barks softly.

“I want you to take it back!” She growls. “And I want you to apologize for leaving without a goodbye!”

His mouth stays open but no words come out. His face goes expressionless.

“You were drunk, right?” She accuses. “You were in pain. You just found out that your wife had done the – the – unthinkable! I want you to tell me you were drunk, that you didn’t mean anything you said and take it back.” She jabs her index into his chest. “You're supposed to be my friend! Everything else can be forgiven! But leaving without saying goodbye – that’s worse than what Trevor did to me!”

He steps forward and Ginny pushes back against the wall for some reason. He doesn't touch her. He’s got her pinned with just the intensity in his hazel-green eyes alone. Those otherwise kind, friendly, humour filled eyes are – dark. With fury, agitation – and confusion.

They are all alone here in the bullpeen. There’s no one here but him and her. She's everything: hurt, angry - maybe even homicidal for the one-eighty pounder with paws the size of Texas looming above her. But, she isn't scared. 

It’s Mike. He’s always been the safest place for her to be herself.

He glares at her for a long, painful while and Ginny meets his gaze, stare for stare.

“I meant it.” He whispers.

“What?” Ginny blinks.

His eyes change. That cold, steely expression is gone. He’s looking at her with the same half-agonized, half-hopeful expression he had when he said those words that night on the hill.

(Especially when he said the word: “ _You_.”)

“Everything – I said that night.” He steps forward and bodies her to the corner. She almost hear the whoosh of the thin cushion of air displacing out when he lines his front up against hers. “I came to San Antonio to say goodbye but – I -I – I just couldn’t do it. The idea of leaving you…not being able to see you again…!” He jerks his head, like it was something horrific. “I wasn’t…putting anything on you.” He gathers himself. “But…I meant every word.”

A pleasant and inexplicable heat flushes through her system, unusual and familiar at the same time. Ginny doesn’t move. Her body’s fixed where it is and his gaze hold hers.

“No, you didn’t. You didn't mean any of that.” She gulps. “If you did. You’re a – you’re a –" She struggles to find the words. "You’d have tried to fuck me if you did.”  ( _Oh god, what is coming out of my mouth?_ )

His face deadpans again. He blinks rapidly at her with those stupidly long lashes beating like a butterfly taking flight the first time. The corners of his moustache twist up.

“Y’know…?” She rambles on, ashamed at the same time of how naïve and stupid she sounds. “…to get me out of your system or something.”

He places his palms flat against the wall again, but leans forward. Ginny stays frozen as his head drops towards her. Her chin tilts up instinctively. Their noses brush. His eyes snap to her mouth. Her body’s vibrating.

 _It’s all the adrenaline,_ she thinks,  _fight or flight response_. That’s why she’s acutely aware of the rasping sounds of his laboured breathing her ears, the tickling feel of his breath on her face, the scent of gum lingering in it.

“Baker.” Minty flurries of air flit over her lips. His whiskers brush over her cupid’s bow.

 _You didn’t mean it_ , she wants to reiterate. An embarrassingly squeaky sound erupts. Ginny drops her eyes to his fuzzy mouth, relaxes her lips and wets them.

“Ginny.” He rasps.

Ginny can hear her heart pounding in her ears. “Mike.” She protests, weakly.

“I don’t ever wanna get _you_ out of my system.” He whispers and seals the hair-breadth distance between their mouths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for baseball faux pas, poor editing etc.  
> Let me know what you thought.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Screw Fox.  
> since Ginny had a rocky start because ( i think in canon it was Mike's criticism that got to her) - screw fox.  
> since mike and ginny didn't get enough bonding time - screw fox  
> since mike bonked amelia and rachel instead of ginny - screw fox  
> since Fox didn't give us the kiss in 109 - screw fox.  
> since Ginny didn't throw her no hitter in 110 - screw fox.  
> my baseball stuff is sucky and there maybe typos- whatever, screw fox.

Ginny always imagined Mike to be a competitive kisser.

Maybe it was because he was so driven on field, so hellbent on performance, so self-assured. Maybe it was all the roughneck vibes that the beard projected. Maybe it’s ‘cause kissing Mike Lawson had been a childhood dream that may have taken a different, less innocent direction as she grew older. (Hell! Maybe she’d been deluded from reading one to many of Evelyn’s bodice-rippers.)

She envisioned him to be the mouth slammin’, lips devourin’, consuming-passion type. The kind that leaves a girl hot, bothered and incapacitated.

But he’s not.

He’s – gentle. There’s nothing rough or ‘consuming’ about him. He’s got thin, pillowy, kissable lips. He slides them over hers tenderly. He coaxes her mouth open without the slightest exertion of force, his tongue darts in and strokes hers lightly. There’s nothing shy or hesitant about him, either. He’s just maddeningly– _gentle_.

And, she’s hot, bothered and incapacitated just the same.

 _It’s probably the beard,_ an errant, silly thought flits through her mind while Ginny sighs into the kiss. _It’s totally misleading._

But, she doesn’t mind the fuzz at all. ( _No sir_.) Those prickly ends poke and tickle all the borders of her mouth. Lovely sensations fan out from parts of her face that she never knew to be erogenous (the dent above her cupid’s bow, the groove under the fullest part of her lower lip, the seam where upper lip meets lower lip).

Some unsolicited demand is placed on her, either by his mouth or the mounting need inside that she succumbs to. She gives in, doesn’t curb the moan building in her throat, or stall the kiss-stated smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Something short circuits. She can almost hear the crackle of heat and static flaring in her belly, driving her into her frenzy. She wants more of it – _this_ – whatever _it_ was.

(Thing is, Ginny’s an A-grade kisser. She’s a total pro at kissing, and usually it’s her smooching skills that give her the upper hand in romantic activities. But here she is, rendered completely clueless. Jumbled, shocked and intrigued all at once, following his seductive lead without question.)

She wraps her arms around his neck, cups the back of his head with her pitching glove to keep him close, squashes her boobs over the rigid chest-guard, matching her head to his, chasing his lips everywhere. When he pulls back, her face trails forward, when he presses on and she cranes her neck back, he slants right and she angles left.

A bleat of protest slips out when he steps back, her veritably seduced mouth pouting shamelessly following his. It morphs into a happy moany-sigh when she gets hauled along.  She’s lifted; large arms wind around her lower back, pulling her off the ground -  just enough so that the toecaps of her cleats are skimming over the dirt.

Muffled but embarrassing noises caterwaul out of someone’s (hers) throat and chest. She’s seventy percent certain she sounds like a dying cat, or a whimpering puppy. Stupidly obvious, and wanton in nature. In fact, it is precisely those soft, _horny,_ greedy, sounds that ought to be an indication of why this should not continue.

They are completely contrary to the point she wants to make.

(That rough, throaty, manly growl-hum from the back of _his_ throat makes her forget exactly what the point is.)

At some point, it breaks. She gasps or maybe he inhales a lungful. She opens her eyes first, just long enough to see the staccato beat of his eyelashes before his darkened eyes meet hers. He’s gawping at her with wide surprised eyes which make no sense given that she’s the surprisee (is that a word?). His rough, loud, open-mouthed breathing mirrors her own. Her chin jerks back but not with shock as much as wanting to admire those stupidly pretty lashes.

Something about her unthought action makes him firm his mouth and drop his eyelids. He pulls his face back.

_(Ho-ly fuck! )_

Ginny’s been kissed well before, but never to the point of literal senselessness. It’s like her mouth was awake, tingling and longing for more, while her body was asleep.

“Shit!” Ginny gasps, clinging to him, feet still dangling. She looks up and around over the covered grandstands, blinking rapidly to clear her blurry vision.

“Yeah.” He stutters, nodding, arousal-darkened eyes locked on her mouth. The consciousness of everything else returns with a pins-and-needles force, including the fact that there’s a certain catcher’s glove cupped firmly around her ass while a large hand rubs up and down her flank like it’s trying to wear down the shirt to reach her skin beneath.

“There got to be a zillion security cameras here!” She huffs.

“Yeah.” He croaks, gulping hard, worry lines etching over his forehead, tossing his head around in all directions, his arms starting to uncoil. For some reason this loosening on hold on her doesn’t seem to work for her. Her arms tighten around his broad shoulders.

His head snaps to hers at her action, his worried expression changes back to surprise.

Ginny opens her mouth to reprimand him, but he’s at it again, dipping his head, nudging her nose. She tilts her head readily, licking at his tongue first, throwing all reason and rationality to hell.

It’s a harder kiss, on the good side of soft, but more insistent. He urges his mouth over hers, his teeth nibble at her lips, his beard rubs more abrasively. Ginny hums louder, stroking the wet, smooth inside of his upper lip. She hears an appreciative gasp, a short gust of air hits the roof of her mouth, a shudder trills down his body and reverberates into hers.

He takes a step forward at the same time that she yanks her pitching glove off frantically. He bumps her into the corner wall with his arms cushioning her back. She rakes her hands into sweaty, short locks of hair, the spaces between her fingers clamping over damp tufts.  He rolls his hips forward exhaling a sexy little grunt. There’s something very hard and very telling grinding against her ladyparts and it’s not an athletic cup. She gasps and widens her hips instinctively.

(So, all those fantasies of wondering what his dick looked like when erect just got a major update.

The way it _feels_ –it’s…

She’s not hating it, is all she’s saying.)

Ginny whimpers. Her glove tumbles out of her fingers, drops with a soft thud. Cord like, dexterous, catcher fingers to grab her ass almost instantly, as though both noises were impetus enough. She’s pulled her closer (apparently, there was still room left for that). Dust flies around her feet and another light thud echoes when his glove drops behind her ankles.

He tears his mouth away making an urgent, rough noise. He drops his face to the side of her neck, inhaling loudly, as though her sweaty scent attracts him. He grates that scruff along the column of her neck, his tongue following it up with soft licks. Ginny moans and closes her eyes, alarmed at how attractive that beard is becoming by the minute. She shivers and jerks her hips, whining her affirmation.

“ _Fuck_!” He whispers, hoarsely. “I knew you’d like that.” She _feels_ his words like they're getting tattooed into her skin. 

He cups her face and presses scratchy kisses over her cheekbone and the side of her face. Her feet find the ground, giving her more leverage. Her mind flashes her a very vivid idea of his face disappearing between her legs and it has her seeing stars. She can sense a smug, cocky smile against her pulse point.

They pull apart but barely. His forehead stays plastered on hers, he brushes eskimo kisses on her nose and his eyes are glued to her mouth.

“Camera blindspot.” He mumbles.

“Huh?”

His eyes swing up to hers – they’re a different shade. Murky brown with pupils dilated to more than half width. “Camera. Blindspot.” He repeats.

Suddenly, the reason he pushed her into that corner and not towards the more convenient wall to her right makes a lot of sense.

“Oh, you’d know?” She taunts, snapping her head back. His eyes trail to her mouth. “How many women do you bring out here?”

His gaze switches back to hers quickly. Something like annoyance flashes. He pulls his waist back (and Ginny’s more than a little disappointed at the loss of contact). He winks at her humourlessly. “Only the special ones.”

She shoots him a look. “That line actually work?”

His smirk gets more pleasant. “Only on the special ones.”

Ginny makes sure he sees her eye-roll. “You kissed me!” She accuses, still clutching him. She hesitantly pulls off her pitching hand out of his hair to jab her index finger at his shoulder to drive in her point. “Twice!”

He looks at her pensively for a while, breathing hard. “You kissed me back.” He returns. A lazy grin spreads across his beard. “Twice.”

She stares at him and he stares back, his face getting smarmier and more collected. Why she re-wraps her arm around him to continue hanging off him completely eludes her.

Her gaze shifts to mouth. His beard is dark with slight flecks of grey, or maybe that’s just sandy-blond highlights that are interspersed. Something about the way his moustache curls over his upper lip, and the lax, pouty posture of his lower lip – it’s - it's…

“Kiss me, again.” She whispers, staring at his mouth.

The corners of his beard quirk up, and he eagerly leans in.

 

* * *

 

_O.M.G._

She made out with Mike (Lawson, but that’s irrelevant).

_Thrice!_

They _may_ have dry humped like horny high-schoolers, during the last one. (But that’s irrelevant too).

 

Well, if things weren’t awkward before, they’re sure as hell going to be so, now.

It was the sound of people that had them both jumping back. Ginny barely managed to straighten out her uniform. The only thing Mike could _bother_ to do was pull out his uniform shirt, letting it hang over the rather obvious tent in his pants. Ginny was hastily gathering their discarded gloves when the door of the bullpen opened and a groundsman and a really old man in a clubbie’s uniform poked their heads in, inquiring of Mike if they would be there for long.

If they noted the awkward expressions or the jumpy body language they didn’t mention it. 

She _barely_ looked at Mike. She changed quickly, hurried out of the park, practically leapt into the car Amelia had arranged for her and rushed as fast as she possibly could to the safety of her hotel room.

Seeing the media pandemonium that had preceded her arrival, Ginny felt opted for Amelia’s arrangements rather than stay with Blip. Blip agreed in the interest of his family’s safety and privacy. Ginny congratulated herself even more on that decision now. She knew there was no way she could hide the truth about what transpired with evasive hypotheticals. And if Evie would suss her out, then Blip would suss Evie out and then… _Gaaah!_

It was only when she was hidden safely under the covers, that Ginny squealed. Memories of… _stuff_ assaulted her and she groaned, blushing and squeaking.

(She also may have _helped_ herself a little more thinking about him but…let’s not go there.)

Ginny’s positive she can never look at him the same now. Idle fantasy after stumbling on his penis was one thing but having gotten a taste of what it could be like with him – it was plain madness.

And ( _holy crap!_ ) she had to play a game with him in the afternoon.

_Double gaaah!_

Usually Ginny zones out and gets her mindspace in a placid state before a game. Instead, she’s jumpy, edgy thinking about everything and nothing (translation: Mike). Amelia mistakes her weird behaviour as nervousness. She parrots out all the usual crowd-handling, press-placating instructions. Ginny doesn’t really pay much attention until she looks out of the window.

For the first time in her life Ginny’s grateful for a media furore simply by because of the distraction it presents.

It’s like a sea, made of people.

“Get used to it, G.” Amelia chuckles. “It’s only gonna get bigger when they officially call you up.”

It’s not just the press, or the girls of all ages in the crowd with their _“Go Ginny_!” and “ _I’m next!”_ placards.  Ginny spots a large group of grown women were also chanting her name. The majority wore pink-ribbons. She notices a small group of women separate from the group, wearing identical t-shirts. Several of them are bald, several have a very distinct sallowness to their face –

“They’re cancer survivors.” Amelia answers her unvoiced query when she spots Ginny peering at them through the window. “Maxine Armstrong – one of the owners of the Padres? She’s the chairman of the foundation that the _Padres_ are raising money for. Those women wrote letters, sent postcards and emails, petitioned the owners and the MLB to let them see you play in this game. We’re going to be having a special photo-op with them, later.”

Ginny looks at Amelia with astonishment.

Amelia smiles. “See, what I mean when I say you represent more than just a baseball player?” Amelia says.

_What you represent…_

Those words -

Things just became very real.

 

Oscar Araguella, the newly appointed GM of the _Padres_ greets her as she exits. He seems more ecstatic that irritated at the massive crowd pressing in from all sides, which is more than what could be said for the gigantor security dudes flanking him.

“The park got sold out as soon as we announced your selection!” He says, after greetings are exchanged and he escorts her to the clubhouse. “All three days. It’s a charity game! We’re overbooked even in the luxury boxes! This has never happened before. Not even for a scheduled major league game! The Foundation has already exceeded their target for donations.”

Ginny isn’t sure what she’s supposed to feel about that.

 

 

Ironically, it’s unwelcoming faces that ground her, bring her back to the harsh reality of her general situation.

As a rule, Ginny made a plan of action to deal with apprehension from a new team. Today, she’s too preoccupied to remember the usual fact that she was an outsider. (Perhaps, she was left unsettled by the mob outside the stadium, or maybe it was because she had been already been acquainted with the player-free clubhouse the previous night. It may have been the comforting knowledge that two of her dearest friends were already _Padres._

It was definitely _not_ the repeat telecast of the previous night’s intimate activities involving one of those dear friends playing in her brain on a constant loop. A friend who also happened to said Captain of the _Padres_ ).  

Ginny wanders in, stuck in the snares of her many mental snafus, only to freeze at the sight of apprehensive and standoffish scrutiny from a lot of very large, very grumpy looking men. Blip is there (thank god) greeting her with a bear hug and a smile – but that’s about it.

It doesn’t help that her bossy agent barrels her way in. Al Luongo’s unimpressed face most certainly doesn’t help, either.

Amelia prattles on about the post-game party which Ginny _has_ to attend because all the bigwigs of the MLB, and the _Padres_ franchise will be there along with sponsors. She then goes on, oblivious to Ginny’s growing discomfort that her agent is now the subject of a lot of dirty looks being thrown by players passing by, several of whom are trying to sneak a peek into Ginny’s cubby (probably thinking she’d be idiotic enough to undress with an open door with only her bulldog of an agent who’s yapping away about perfume endorsements as her only cover.) Amelia then goes on to give her specific instructions on which pre-game sports reporters she’s allowed to speak while Ginny pulls off her shoes and socks, hoping her agent will take the message and let her prep in peace.

That’s when Al Luongo waddles by, not bothering to hide his revulsion at Amelia. “Is she really necessary here?” He burrs.

When she glances back at Amelia’s face she realizes from the equally disgusted look on Amelia’s face that Luongo and her have already _met_. (And Ginny can only imagine how that disaster might have gone.)

“We’re done, Skip. Sorry.” Ginny nods. “She’s just leaving.”

Amelia looks insulted and wary at the same time.

“Seriously.” She hisses at Amelia. “I’m fine.” Ginny stands up barefoot and nods.

Amelia throws Luongo a threatening look and then leaves.

Luongo nods at Ginny and grunts at her sceptically, leaning his weight against her door. He even tries to smile, except with that tired and irritated look in his eyes, it comes off as a mean grimace. He doesn’t really sound as vexed when he speaks and there’s something close to kindness in his voice when he motions to the room. “Is this manageable for you, Rook?”

Without thinking, Ginny spreads her mouth in a grin. She looks around the room and shrugs, unable to contain her glee. “It has a door, Skip!” She says, cheerfully.

Al gives her that repulsed look again as though he thinks she’s being sarcastic. “Yeah, I’m a firm believer in gender segregation.” He grouches. “Sue me.”

Ginny giggles.

“I wasn’t intending that as a joke.” He seems to get grumpier.

“Neither was I, sir.” She says. “A door is a luxury for me. Trust me, it’s a lot more than what I’ve been given in the past.”

Luongo frowns at her like what she’s saying is a novelty. In that instant, Ginny’s reminded of Mike. The first day she met him in the _Missions_ clubhouse, and that day in Florida when she’d been forced to use the open showers.

He sighs and rubs his face. “Look, Baker.” He looks a little sheepish. “I know you’re a celebrity and everythin’ and all but this is my clubhouse. It’d be nice if we could keep things focussed on baseball out on the field?” He asserts. “And I know this isn’t a major-league ball game, but I’m managing this team like I’d manage any other professional ball club. I’d like for us to win.”

“Never played a game I didn’t intend to win, Skip.” She announces chirpily.

He doesn’t seem impressed by her self-affirmation. Ginny wonders if it’s because it’s the first time he’s managing a team with a girl on it.

“How’s your arm feel?” He asks, eyeing her warily. The look on his face suggests that he’s hoping for a negative answer so he doesn’t have to play her.

“Good, sir.”

The disappointed smirk he makes confirms her doubts. He leaves shaking his head.

She walks to the door and continues to look down the corridor, watching the chubby old man trudge towards his office.

Mike saunters by from the opposite end with a seeking look in his eyes. His eyes connect with hers and Ginny almost groans when she sees that uncomfortable expression. His face brightens up dramatically when he intercepts Luongo. He greets him with a: “Skip!” but Luongo pulls of his cap, smacks Mike in the arm and barks at him. “You vouched for her now, you deal with her!”

Clearly, he’s unaware that Ginny’s listening.

Mike’s gaze shifts to her, and an apologetic, sheepish expression flashes in his eyes. Ginny sighs and waves her hand dismissively as Luongo stalks off. Mike turns to her, gives her a goofy expression as he approaches her. “Still think I’m the crankiest person on the _Padres_?”

“Why am I here if he doesn’t want me here?” Ginny asks.

He regards expressionlessly for a minute and then squints his eyes. She knows some stupid comment is to be expected. Sure enough...

“Why else?” He pipes wryly, dawdling towards her with his hands in his pocket. “To sell tickets and make money!”

She rolls her eyes.

“Don’t mind him.” Mike cajoles. “He’s been away for almost a year, it’s taking him a while to getting re-accustomed to wrangling baseballers.”

“Why was he off for the season?” Ginny asks, curious.

Mike’s face blanks out. “Personal reasons.” He says, rather non-committedly.

“So, he’s out for an entire season for personal reasons but he chooses to be back for a charity event?” Ginny asks, incredulous.

Mike looks a little sad. “There are somethings in life that are more important, Baker.”

The tone of his voice suggests that she not prod further, so she lets it go.

“So, uh…” He steps forward, leans against the side of the door frame opposite her and checks his twenty. “About last night…”

Ginny tenses. She peeks about the corridor and wets her lips.

His looks at his shoes. “We should…” He stutters softly. “Th- that was a…it wasn’t right of me to – uh…” He clears his throat. “That wasn’t a private area.” 

Ginny rolls her eyes inwardly. Mike Lawson stumbling over his words, indeed the day had come.

He glances at her and looks away. He opens his mouth and shuts it.

“Don’t.” She says.

He looks up.

“Don’t apologize.” She says. “It only confuses me.”

His face deadpans before that lazy, sexy smirk starts to spread. Her breath catches in her throat when his eyes begin to twinkle with mischief.

"Apologize?" He quips, his voice drops. "Who says I'm apologizing?"

Ginny’s throat feels dry. “Whatever, it’s cool.” She fakes nonchalance. “Y’know, it kinda doesn’t count when you’re wearing clothes.”

He blinks at her like he can’t believe she just said that. ( _Oh wow. High school logic on a senior ballplayer. Way to go, Ginny. Any other bright ideas?)_  He crosses his arms and tilts his head at her amusedly. “Huh.” He says.

“Yeah it was just…” (Why does she feel so breathless?) “Y’know? Rising tensions, high-strung emotions and what not.”

He looks at her long and hard, eyes focused on her face. She feels very crowded, even though neither of them have moved and there’s at least an arm’s distance between them. The air between them feels denser – electric.

 _Oh no._ This - _this_ is dangerous territory. The memory of those very same eyes hits her. Darkening with heightened arousal, peering into her face, looking at her like he wanted to devour her. She remembers everything. The way their lower bodies churned against each other. His hoarse gasps in her ear, his mouth and all the magical things he did, his beard scraping against that spot in her neck, his hands gripping her ass, the dampness she felt in her underwear, the chafing layers of fabric between them blistering the tender skin of her inner thighs.

“So yeah.” She waves her hand through the air, hoping to dispel the imaginary electric charge it seems heavy with. “Yeah…it’s…y’know.”

He keeps staring at her.

“I mean…” She says the first thing that comes to mind. “You’re still in love with Rachel.” She retorts.

If it’s supposed to side-track him it doesn’t. Those forehead lines appear and disappear when his eyebrows lift and fall nonchalantly. “You’re in love with Trevor.” He points out with a shrug of his shoulders.

(That notion about her being in love with Trevor, needs some serious rethinking. Ginny never felt like _this_ with Trevor.)

“But….but…but…I broke up with him.” She argues.

“And, I broke up with Rachel.” He does that facial shrug thing again. For some reason, Ginny’s mind is replaying how he stroked the small of her back when they kissed.

“It’s not the same.” She says, completely distracted by the warmth spreading up her spine now.

“Why not?”

She had an answer for that one in her brain somewhere. “It’s just - not.” She pouts.

He’s looking at her like she’s nuts (and she wouldn’t fault him for it).

“For starters, she broke up with you.” Ginny states, wondering if it’s too soon to salt those wounds.

If it offends him, he doesn’t show it. In fact, he just sighs and coolly says, “Semantics.” Like he’s completely over Rachel.

“Yo Mikey!”  _(OhThankGod!)_

Mike draws back and straightens his face pretty quickly. Ginny breathes out her relief with a puff of air and turns her head in the direction of the person.

A handsome, well-built and tall man whose face is very familiar, who looks a lot like the Will Smith from this ‘Fresh Prince’ days, marches towards them. He acknowledges her with a grinning nod. “We hear your batterymate throws like a girl.” He hollers.

Ginny gathers herself as both men start slapping each other’s backs and butts and chatting up about some guy they know in common.

The other man stretches his hand to her. “Hey. I’m Andy Carter.”

Ginny’s confused. “Seriously?” She asks. “You guys are friends.”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t we be?” Andy frowns.

“Yes, Baker!” Mike addresses it when he spots her curious looks. “This handsome goober is in fact Orson Carter’s brother. And for the record, I was actually aiming for _his_ nose.” He points to Andy. “His brother’s already ugly.”

Andy throws his head back and bellows a meaty laugh. “Ah don’t sweat it. Orson’s a douche. He deserved it.” He looks at her, wiggling his eyebrows at his outstretched hand. “So…you gonna leave a guy hangin’?”

She exchanges a glance with Mike, who reassures her with a small blink, she plasters a polite smile and shakes his hand. Andy cocks his head at her, glancing between her and Mike. “Wow. A Mike Lawson loyalist! Hmm. I like you already Ginny Baker, I’ve decided to take you under my wing.”

“Andy the only wings you have are the ones you eat!” Mike guffaws, shaking his head. He nods at Ginny. “See you in the trainer’s room later? We need to go over the hitters.”

She nods and then turns to Andy who’s still regarding her with a pensive smile.

“I uh…” She sticks her thumb towards her cubby. “Gotta change.”

“So uh…” Andy leans against the wall. “Um – how’s Lance doin’?”

“Who?”

“Oh, Lance Stykes he’s…”

“Stykie? My catcher!” Ginny chuckles dryly.

Andy gives her that strange smile. “We’re close friends. Almost did a season together in Triple-A.”

“Oh well.” Ginny smiles pleasantly. “I don’t think I’m the right person to talk to about him. He’s been a bit of a dick to me.”

Andy guffaws. “You’re putting it rather nicely. He’s a dick to everyone.”

“Especially me.”

“Nah – he’s just…” Andy shakes his head. “Lance was really heartbroken when they traded him down. He’s great but – y’know…”

It’s tough enough to refer to Stykie as Lance, but _heartbroken?_ She images Stykie’s perpetual assholishness and shrugs mentally. Maybe he was one those guys who expresses disappointment with general douchebag behaviour.

When she glances up at Andy, a very sad shadow has fallen over his face.

“Looks like he wasn’t the only one.” Ginny says, frowning.

Andy smirks dismissively. Something very soft flashes in his eyes.

“Yeah well, it’s how it is right.” He shrugs sadly. “Baseball comes first.”

“No, I don’t.” She shrugs. “I mean yeah about the baseball bit but…” She frowns. “If you two are so close why don’t you just call him and ask him how he’s doing?”

Andy’s face falls. “We didn’t part…on the best of terms. I mean, you know how things go in the minors. We can’t always have things the way we want…and besides…” Andy looks like he wants to say more but he doesn’t.  

There’s something lost and dismal in his eyes that she picks up on.

_Oh._

“You know – a lot of things about Stykie – Lance – they make sense now.” Ginny says.

“Oh yeah? Like what?” Andy’s still wearing that forlorn face.

“Like how angry and bitter he is all the time.”

Andy’s eyes snap up to hers and there’s a momentary flash of discomfort before he steadies his expressions. Ginny smiles at him appreciatively, hoping he catches her drift.

“I’m thinkin’ he misses you something’ fierce, too.” She whispers and winks.

He rewards her with a thankful smile.

“For what it’s worth, Andy.” Ginny pats his shoulder. “If anyone understands what it’s like being ‘different’ in this game, it’s me. Do – any of your teammates know?”

Andy shakes his head and sighs. Two _Padres_ players pass by. They throw peculiar inquiring looks at her and Andy and it’s clear they’re suspecting a flirtation. Andy waves at them and they nod back.

“Perks of male privilege, I guess.” Andy remarks. “No one questions how much time you spend with a teammate as long as he’s a dude.” He looks at her. “I’m willing to bet you don’t get so much freedom.”

Ginny makes facial gesture of agreement. (Isn’t that why she has a code? Which she broke - _twice_? One made her regret breaking it, the other one made her want to repeat the infraction.)

“Y’know, I’ve been friends with Mikey a while.” Andy says, sounding more relaxed, pulling her out of her thoughts. “Even before I got recruited.”

“Well, you must, if you’re calling him _Mikey_.” Ginny snorts.

“Yeah, never seen him do that thing.” Andy wrinkles his nose.

“What thing?”

“That nice thing he does with his face when he looks at you.” Andy straightens up.

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet he doesn’t realize it either.” Andy chuckles, wishing her good luck as he leaves.

 

* * *

 

 

The thundering roar filled with screams is unlike anything Ginny’s seen in her life. Petco is massive as it is and it’s shocking to see that it’s teeming with people, filled to the brim. She doesn’t miss the glances exchanged between Mike and Luongo when they step out. The entire stadium seems to vibe with some raw energy that’s seeping into her. Ginny’s heart starts to pound, blood rushes into her ear.

“Baker.” Mike’s voice somehow hits her eardrums, cutting through it all.

Ginny looks at him. He’s right there at the base of the mound adjusting his chest guard. The umpires are in some discussion about something. The starting hitter drifts towards his box.

“This is just like any other ballgame.” He says.

She looks around and back at him. “I’ve never played in front of so many people.”

Mike grimaces as he scans the crowd. He shrugs. “It’s not the major leagues – Baker.” He looks at her sharply. “Not yet.”

“Yeah.” She sighs and scuffs her cleat.

“For what it’s worth, I’ve never played in a sold-out stadium before.” He offers.

Ginny’s head snaps up at him. He nods, with a smug expression. “What’d I tell you, rookie? You’re here to sell tickets! Folks came all this way to see the one and only Ginny Baker turn herself into a national laughing stock in person.”

Ordinarily, she’d retaliate but now she just blows a raspberry.

“Let it out.” He says, grimly. “Before you throw the first pitch. Quickly. Sam’s gonna be on my ass in about a minute.” He points to the surly looking umpire who’s in conversation with the third base umpire.

“I’m – I’m kinda scared.” She looks down at the mound.

“I’d be scared too.” He says.

“You’re too damn smooth to be scared.”

He shrugs his eye brows rather smarmily. “That’s true.” He agrees with a trumpeting guffaw.

Ginny sniggers, glancing at the dugout. “Your teammates don’t like me.” She says.

“For the record, they’re your teammates for now.”

“Fine, _my_ teammates don’t like me.”

“Okay. What’s new about that?”

“Nothing. Your – my manager – Luongo! He doesn’t like me either. He keeps looking at me like I’m gonna tank the game or something.”

“You are gonna tank the game.” He starts chewing the gum.

Ginny makes a face.

He mimics her.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, _Captain_!” Ginny mocks.

Mike rolls his eyes. “I told ya, don’ mind Al. This thing is personal for him.”

“What? It’s stupid fundraiser thingy! Why?”

“I’ll tell you after the game.”

“Why?”

“Because I say so.”

“That’s not good enough for me.”

“Well, it better be, ‘cause I’m the captain.”

_“Ugh!”_

Mike chews his gum and then says. “Teammates hating you, your manager not thinking much of you, that’s not new. And it’s never bothered you before.”

“It bothers me now!” She says. “People have given up a lot for me to reach the majors, Mike. And ‘m not even there yet. There’s no guarantee that I’ll ever make it. There are…people are depending on me. My family…my agent…those young women…” She points the crowd.

Her eyes feel really wet, suddenly. “My father _died_ to get me here, Mike! He was always drivin’ me around for games, and the night I got scouted by the Padres, we were coming back from the NC state finals and this car came out of nowhere and he _died_! If I wasn’t doing…this. He’d be alive. And now, he – and he isn’t here to see this! In fact, he’d have laughed at all this. He was a purist like that. Didn’t like distractions.”

He chews pensively nodding at her. She huffs out and wets her mouth. She looks at Mike and shrugs. “On top of all that, now I’m supposed to be _representing_ something to these people we’re raising money for. These are women, who are fighting _cancer_! They’re the real warriors and I’m this – just this, _this_ ballplayer. Who just so happens to be the first woman doing this. So yeah, my screwball’s awesome, and maybe my fastball is half-decent! But - to represent _women fighting cancer_ now?” She sighs. “I don’t even know if I’m the right person for the job.”

To reiterate her point, Ginny’s eyes shift to the on-deck circle. To the one person she’s been absolutely refusing to acknowledge the whole damn time. Mike follows her gaze to Trevor Davis and then looks back at her.

“Because of him?” Mike looks confused and a little disappointed with her.

Ginny closes her eyes.

“Is this about your code?” He prods.

She sighs, keeping her eyes screwed shut.

“Baker. That code is to _protect_ you! _You!_ ” Mike insists, fiercely. “That son of a bitch cheated you into breaking it! That makes him a fucking spineless wimp, not you!”

Ginny’s eyes fly open.

He moves up the slope of the mound, extending a hand to the umpire who starts walking towards them. He makes a lot of comical gestures begging him for two minutes.

“Okay, here’s what I got.” Mike spins around, looking at her intently. “First up – your fastball is not half-decent. It’s the lousiest fastball in the history of fastballs.”

Ginny rolls her eyes.

“Second,” He continues, the humour fading. “Right here, right now you don’t represent anything except our defence. You’re a pitcher, Rookie. And what’s better – you’re _my_ pitcher!” He says, and Ginny sees that his eyes are glowing with pride.

He stares at her for a long moment, and in that moment Ginny feels like she’s ready to let go of – everything.

“It seems to me like you’ve got a lot of people telling you who you’re doing this for, and I wonder if it’s not about time you start doing this for yourself. Just you! Screw all the attention. And y’know what? Screw all those adorable little girls in the crowd with their Ginny Baker signs! You’re not a girl scout leader, Rookie! You’re a ballplayer!  You do this for you, you do this for your team…” he shakes his head. “Or you don’t do it at all. ‘Cause you can’t aim your pitches if you’re aiming to please everyone.”

Ginny stares at him, awed.

Mike looks rather pleased with himself. He starts snorting. “I literally just came up with that one on the spot.” He grimaces, mocking himself. “I mean ‘aim your pitches’, ‘aim to the please’” He gives her that adorable vain, self-satisfied look where the corners of his eyes all crinkly. “Damn! I’m good! I really could be in the movies.”

He starts walking backwards. “Gotta go!” He points a finger at the umpire who’s yelling his name. “Y’know people are gonna start talking. Y’know it’s kinda getting awkward now.”

Ginny exhales long and hard. Then she takes her position on the mound.

“Hey!” He calls to her as she bends to pick up the dusting bag. “Mic drop!”

Ginny doesn’t hide her chuckle.

 

She zones herself, drowns out the crowd, focuses on the sign put down by the man squatting in the catcher’s box.

For some reason, the fact that she broke her code for Mike hasn’t been bothering her at all. It’s when she winds up, that she realizes why that is.

It’s like he said, her code was meant to protect her.

And Mike was always the one person she never needed protecting from.

By the end of the day, the _Padres_ defeat the _Cardinals_ 8-0 in nine spectacular shut-out innings thrown by one Ginny Baker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, guys. I almost had a breakdown when I heard Pitch wasn't getting renewed.  
> Flew home and getting some chill time.  
> FTR. i'm not giving up fanfic writing. I'm not going to post much on tumblr, but i will check my tumblr messages and asks, because there's no other way for you to communicate with me other than AO3 if you need to.  
> The original plan was to end it with this chapter with an unresolved romance, and Ginny meeting Mike as she does in canon.  
> But things are different now.  
> So, what do you think of my chapter? I think reviews are all that's going to help me survive at this point.  
> Next ch -> maybe smut, definitely a party where mike sees ginny in a dress, some long overdue trevor, rachel drama.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dear readers,
> 
> I’m sorry I haven’t replied to your lovely reviews or updated.
> 
> It’s been a terrible time for me. First the awful news of Pitch’s cancellation, then I almost had a nervous breakdown because everything got too much. I went home for a break and my oldest, my  favourite dog (who was very much a Mike Lawson in personality) died suddenly and I was just heartbroken and really shattered.
> 
> I know I have appealed to you before, but now I feel the need to appeal to you again. Our friends at the [Pitch Street Team](https://pitchstreetteam.tumblr.com/) and the brilliant [PickUpPitch](https://pitchstreetteam.tumblr.com/post/160424538710/pickuppitch-campaign) campaigners are working really hard to get the show picked up by someone else (hopefully Hulu). Yeah, things look dismal, but at the same time [there’s hope](https://pitchstreetteam.tumblr.com/post/160551086335/we-have-the-eyes-and-ears-of-the-hulu-people-we) .
> 
> I know I’ve asked you to be invested before and Fox let us all down. Nonetheless, I appeal to you again to support this cause. I think we all know how much this means to us all. 
> 
> I request you to patronize the [PST’s campaign.](https://pitchstreetteam.tumblr.com/post/160501910080/not-out-of-the-game-pickuppitch) Also consider [sending](https://pitchstreetteam.tumblr.com/post/160465149030/baseball-cards-for-pickuppitch-pitches-we-are) these post cards if you can.
> 
> My good friend and fanfic author extraordinaire [oddlyfamiliar](http://oddlyfamiliar.tumblr.com/) has come up with an ingenious idea to keep our love for this show going. Check out [Virtual Pitch](https://virtualpitch.tumblr.com/).
> 
>  
> 
>  **Warning** : ~~Soap opera stuff ahead. I think.~~

There’s quite nothing like good ol’ fashioned cynical sexism to keep the high of a perfect game in check.

 

“Are you a one-game wonder?”

 _Sure, every game I've pitched, I’m a one-game wonder. How many games does it take to_ not _be a one game wonder?_

“I guess we’ll have to find out.” She smirks, politely.

 

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

_How in the fuck does that matter?_

“Next question!” She barks.

 

“The _Cardinals_ say they didn’t take the game too seriously. That they were complacent because it was just for charity's sake.”

 _Sure, whatever helps them sleep at night_.

“Every game I pitch, I take seriously, that’s all I gotta say.” She answers, curbing the sarcasm in her voice.

 

“Some argue that a girl on field is a distraction, what are your thoughts on that?”

 _I’d argue that stupidity on the field is a distraction too, but you don’t see me striking out_.

Ginny glances at Amelia whose expressionless face is steadily transforming to fuming disappointment. “Sounds more like an excuse than an argument.” She answers coolly.

And on and on it goes until Amelia’s patience snaps and Ginny is shepherded out of the press room.

 

Amelia shuts the door to the barrage of ‘last questions’ and flashing lightbulbs just once they’re in the secluded hallway. Ginny slaps a hand over her face, groaning out a sigh, slumping against the wall and shaking her head. Amelia paces up and down the breadth narrow passage, bitching specifically about the female reporters who ironically asked the most sexist questions.

Ginny braces for the ‘talk’ when Amelia’s voice turns forcibly sibilant.

Amelia’s version of a ‘pep talk’ is an unnecessary monologue that Ginny’s heard several times in several versions: how this was to be expected, how women must work twice as hard to get half the recognition they deserve, how it’s only going to get worse from here, how Ginny’s going to change all that when she makes history, how they’ll prepare for every possible argument, how they’re not going to let a bunch of stupid hillbilly-brained hypocrites waylay what they’re out to do.

(In the beginning, Ginny would _try_ to tell her that she had given up complaining about unfairness and ridicule a long time ago. Pop, in addition to her physical training, had put in a lot of hours of conditioning her mentally for this very scenario. Yet, Amelia would prattle on, talking _at_  Ginny more than _to_ her. She recognized in time that this ‘pep talk’ was more for Amelia’s sake more than Ginny’s and Ginny was intelligent enough to understood why. Even though Amelia didn’t mention it, Ginny knew that in representing her, Amelia faced as much cynicism and sexism as Ginny did. The 'talk' was indirectly self-affirmation for the agent handling the unnerving and colossal task of representing the first female aspirant for the major leagues. )

So, while Amelia yabbers on, Ginny clocks out, thinking of the game.

 

Ginny would never say this out loud, but that last out was a fluke.

She happened to scan the crowd just after the second strike while gearing up for the next throw. The shrill, feminine, screeches had transformed to a unified gender-ambiguous thundering chant of “Go Ginny!”, alternated with a “Let’s go, Padres!” and synchronized clapping.

Ginny felt like a rockstar at the centre of a stage that seemed vaster than just the ballpark she was in. She turned towards the homeplate, trying to regain focus and sure enough, her catcher had the signal ready.

Not long ago she had looked in the direction of his thighs and gotten side-tracked by the thought of his junk. Now, all she saw was his sturdy wrist resting on a thick thigh and four long fingers wiggling.

_Screwball._

Her attention drifted to his masked face. There wasn’t much to be seen at sixty-point-five feet beyond his protective gear and his firm, visible nods. Determined, unspoken affirmations.

 _You’ve got this, Baker. And, I’ve got you_.

Without instance or intimation, a random thought splashed through the multitude of thoughts already scampering about her brain.

A memory. 

Of _another_ Mike; the one from the poster on her wall.

There was a little coping mechanism Ginny had developed when she was an adolescent. When she was feeling particularly low in the middle of the game, she would imagine the strapping star catcher of the _Padres_ in place of her catcher. She’d imagine his young, clean shaven face with his chocolate-boy good looks, that cocky, melting smile. She imagined him encouraging her, putting down a sign that she could work with. Her teenage heart would do all sorts of rhythms, and the stress would fade away like under a spell. Then Ginny would shake off the thoughts, reorient, get back into zone and pitch.

Ginny didn’t know why she thought of _that_ Mike at that moment. She didn’t know why she pictured _that_ Mike in the catcher’s box as she wound up.

 _That_ man with all his springy youth and superficial perfections was _not_ the man she knew or trusted.

Above all, that Mike wasn’t _her Mike_.

The ball cranked out of her hand a little wonky and Ginny was certain it was lost. She hissed on the follow through, a foul self-deriding expletive already on the tip of her tongue, fully prepared for the hitter to slug it out of the park and shatter everything. Mike sprung up, and from the wobbly way he leaned upwards and forward, it was clear that ball’s trajectory was off the strike zone.

It was the impulsive swing and a miss from the batter that saved her. The ball found its way into Mike’s glove and the umpired called third strike, securing Ginny’s place in the history of Petco Park. (So what, if it _wasn’t_ a real major league game).

Ginny didn’t even feel inclined to punch her fist in the air. She took in a deep breath and whipped around to the stands, seeking her father out  - as was her first instinct.

_We did it, Pop._

His voice replied in her mind, _We ain’t done nothing yet._

A collective roar, louder than before that erupted from the crowd served as a leveling reminder that Pop wasn’t there.

That he would never be there.

Then, Ginny turned to Mike. Sixty-feet, six inches away he stayed in his box, gaping at her with facemask dangling in his hand, awe, triumph and disbelief written over his bare face.

He didn’t move, he just _looked_.

At her.

And Ginny _looked_ back, rooted on the mound, grinning at him while the world around her thundered.

Blip tackled her first. A throng of _Padres_ obscured her view of her catcher ( _their_ catcher _)_ hording her, felicitating her with pats and hugs, cheering and yelling in her ear.

She squealed when they hoisted her up. She laughed and rejoiced, surfing on a wave of hands and shoulders. She spotted Mike, making his way through, accepting slaps of hugs and cheers with that big cocky Mike Lawson grin on his face. Without thinking she stretched her arms out to him like a little child, leaning off the human palanquin formed by Blip, Carter and Salvamini. Without hesitation, he shoved Dusty and Bean away, reaching for her with a soft smile, curling his large hands under her armpits and sliding her off.

Ginny latched onto his shoulders and toppled into his embrace like a ragdoll– boneless and giggling. She rested her cheek on his shoulder and hugged him tight, her body inertly pulsing while the others thumped her back and piled on them.

How safe and secure she was with _this_ man, she thought. _This_ Mike that she knew. This hirsute, competitive, pig-headed, grumpy ballplayer and occasional egomaniac.

This leader, this friend, this kind man. This gentle soul.

A scruffy sensation of his beard pressing into her earlobe preceded an inaudible whisper. She drew her head back and yelled, “What?” over the din of shouts and cheers. But, she was pulled off, dragged away from him by Blip and the others.

Too soon.

 

 

Ginny glances down the length of the hallway casually when Amelia lets out a loud relieved huff after her rant concludes, moving to a conversation about the party planned for the evening.

Her heart does something when a familiar brown faded leather jacket over a black and white checkered button-down meets her vision. She wonders if she subconsciously willed him to appear or if he’d been there all along.

Her gaze drifts up, settling over the freckled, sun-stung alabaster skin in the inverted triangle space between undone top buttons. She rapidly drags her eyes upwards, trying not to blush. (Something _must_ be wrong with her, she supposes, that she’s disappointed about the lack of grumpy scowl when she finally regards that bearded face.) He’s leaning by the wall down the corridor watching her bemusedly, with arms crossed, beard lifted, mouth relaxed, eyes twinkling.

“Where are you going?” Amelia asks Ginny.

That’s when she realizes that she’s walking towards Mike.

“I er…” Ginny glances between her agent and Mike. Amelia’s eyes widen when she zeroes in on Mike.

“Give me a few minutes.” Ginny says, trying to act cool.

Amelia nods, but the disapproving wariness in her eyes is so obvious that even Mike notices it. He quirks an eyebrow up as though Amelia’s hostility is a challenge and not a threat.

“Who’s the blonde?” Mike asks her.

“My agent.” Ginny says.

He flashes Amelia a charming smile, tipping his chin in greeting. It doesn’t work, Amelia’s response is a curt nod and subzero-strength glare. He seems undaunted. Instead he directs his attention to Ginny, straightens his posture and motions for her to walk with him.

“Still think I’m the dwarf who opened for the St. Louis Browns?” Ginny teases.

“That fastball you threw at Bilner hung so long over the plate, I almost fell asleep.” He retorts. “I guess it’s a good thing he’s cross-eyed. I wonder how he drives.”

Ginny replies with an eye-roll.

“So, I need a favour from you.” He says, clearing his throat. “Actually, it’s not for me, it’s for Al.” He frowns and adds hastily, “but he doesn’t know about it.” He frowns again. “I mean, he _knows_ about it, but I guess he’s too shy to ask you directly.”

Ginny’s so busy wondering if it’s normal for her heart to do the little flutter thing every time his forehead puckers, that it takes her a second to realize that Mike is _requesting_ her for something and not barking orders like he usually does.

“You’re not making sense, Old Man.” Ginny grins, bumping her shoulder into his arm.

He gives her a mocking sneer and elbows her as a rebuttal before he leads her a wider passageway that’s on the other side of Al’s office.  

“That’s Anna.” Mike says softly, his voice heavy with a sad undertone. “She’s Al’s wife.”

At first, Ginny thinks that he’s pointing to the young, pretty brunette that’s standing in a corner at the far end. (Ginny snorts, ready to express astonishment at Al’s wife being so young _and_ apologize for being judgmental at the same time. But -) the young brunette sinks to her calves, directing Ginny’s attention to the true subject of Mike’s gaze.

The frail, older woman sitting in a wheel chair.

Frail is an understatement. She looks - emaciated.

The older woman’s face is puffy and ashy. Her skin practically hangs off her bones. Her clothes seem like they were made for a healthier frame and there’s a scarf (a _Padres_ bandana) hugging her skull in a way that makes it apparent that she’s hairless. It doesn’t take much brainpower to figure out that she’s a victim of cancer.

Ginny’s glance returns to the brunette as she adjusts the older woman’s dress and the blanket over her legs. “That’s their daughter, Natalie.” Mike explains, as though he sensed her query. “She’s a doctor. She transferred to UCSD's Medical Centre for her internship to be with her mother, during – this time.” Mike hesitates. “Anna’s got – late stage breast cancer.”

Ginny tears her sight away from them and looks at Mike. He doesn’t nod but that helplessly dismal look on his face leaves little to speculation as to the prognosis. Ginny also has no doubt Mike is very attached to Mrs. Luongo.

“That’s why he took the season off?” Ginny asks, studying Anna Luongo, feeling puzzled and emotional at the same time.

Mike doesn’t speak or gesture. He merely casts a forlorn glance at Anna, sombrely pursing his mouth.

“Look, Baker.” Mike clears his throat, and looks at Ginny directly. “When they announced your selection, Anna was excited to see you play. She hasn’t been to the ballpark in the last three years. Her cancer’s pretty advanced and this year’s been particularly rough on her. On both her and Al, actually. She’s pretty much housebound when she isn’t at the hospital.”

She feels unexpectedly strange. It’s bizarre to know that someone like Mrs. Luongo would be a fan.

Mike shoots a sympathetic smile. “Remember I told you this was personal for him?”

When Ginny nods, he continues. “Al _requested_ to be reappointed as team manager for this series. He’d rather hang each of us by our nuts than watch us screw up at what is possibly the….” Mike glances forlornly at Anna and back at Ginny. “…the _last_ baseball game that she was coming out to see.”

Ginny’s baffled. “Wh-why didn’t…?”

“Why didn’t he tell you?” Mike prompts.  He shakes his head. “Look, Al’s old-fashioned and it’s true, you don’t exactly fit in the with his idea of a ballplayer and yes, he’s not happy about having a girl in his clubhouse – ” He sighs. “But, he’s a good man. It would be sentimental blackmail if he sicced this on you.”

Ginny sighs.

“Rookie.” Mike says, turning to her. “Al treats his players like family, by extension that makes us her family too. That’s why Anna is important to us – to me.”

Ginny shakes her head. “But, why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

His face softens, he slants his head lifting a bearded cheek in a lopsided but fond smirk. “You’ve got enough to deal with as it is, Baker. Putting _that_ kind of pressure on you…” He tips his head in Mrs. Luongo’s direction, “it would simply be unfair.”

Ginny twists her mouth.

“You think she’d still wanna meet me if I froze up or threw a lousy game?”

“She’d still be here.” He reassures. “You know, when they started talking about you last year, she was rooting for you all the way.”

Ginny puffs out her cheeks and pinches her bottom lip.

“Look.” Mike clears throat. “Al doesn’t like calling in personal favours from players he doesn’t know. So, I’m calling this one on his behalf. Figured, I’d save him the effort. I know you only do autographs and pictures for little girls, Rookie, but…do this. For me. Please?”

“Wow.” Ginny sniggers. “The one time, you say ‘please’ is the one time you don't even _need_ to ask.” Ginny sighs. “Can my life get any weirder?”

His face breaks into a wide grin. “Here.” He hands her his backpack which Ginny takes. “Hold this.”

“Mike Lawson!” A feeble, crackly female voice reaches them. They turn to find Anna Luongo being wheeled by Natalie towards them. “Now, I know I taught you better than forcing your rookie to carry that monstrosity.” She scolds.

Ginny snorts, holding back her laughter. Mike rolls his eyes, unzipping the main compartment to pull out a ball and a pen from the bag that he hands to Ginny.

“She’s just holding it for me!” He grouses. He shoots Ginny a reprimanding look when she starts giggling and pulls the backpack towards his person, hooking it around his shoulder.

Ginny signs the ball and hands it back to Mike before she flashes her biggest and best grin for the woman rolling up to her.

From the porcelain-delicate facial structure, that lovely shining smile and those bright, beautiful eyes, Ginny can tell the Anna Luongo was once an exquisite beauty. The tremulous skeletal hand that she extends to Ginny while Mike takes care of the introductions looks almost friable, and Ginny keeps her grasp light, afraid of cracking those fragile bones.

“Ginny Baker!” She sighs. “I’m so pleased to meet you. I never thought I’d see a woman in the majors in my lifetime.”

“Well, I’m not exactly…” Ginny hisses.

“Eh!” Anna cuts her off with a dismissive grimace and a wave of her hand. “It’s a matter of time.”

Ginny doesn’t know what to say, so she looks at Mike. He shrugs. Anna narrows her eyes when she spots Ginny’s sceptical face and shakes her head. “Honey, when you’re married to a man like Al, you’re married to baseball. Trust me when I say I’ve picked up a couple of things over the years. So when I say, you’re going to make it – you’re definitely going to make it.” The smile she beams is positive and energetic and it’s gorgeous enough for Ginny to forget Anna’s overall sickly appearance.

Mike hands Anna the ball that Ginny had signed. “Last ball of the game that I caught for Baker, as promised, signed by the one and only…” He waves at Ginny.

Anna scrutinizes the ball, frowns at it and then hands it back to Mike. “Yours too.” Anna commands. Ginny finds it amusing how obediently Mike complies.

“Why do you want both our autographs?” Mike asks, when he returns the ball.

“It’ll sell for double on eBay.” Anna quips.

Ginny grins at the joke. “eBay?” Mike teases.

“Yeah, I gotta teach Al how to sell stuff on eBay. I can’t leave this earth without teaching my internet-illiterate husband some survival skills for the twenty first century.”

Ginny grimaces, but it seems it’s commonplace for Anna to speak so casually about death because neither Natalie nor Mike flinch.

“What are _you_ gonna do with all that money?” Mike scoffs.

“For starters,” Anna squints at his beard. “I’ll be buying you a proper razor.”

Ginny starts bubbling with laughs, earning a sharp but playful scowl from Mike.

“You know the only thing that gives me comfort is knowing the game is finally going to be in a woman’s hands.” Anna comments wryly. “No matter what they say, men are clueless about how to get to third base.”

Ginny covers her mouth, impeding her giggles.

Mike guffaws. “I’ll be sure to tell Al you said that.”

“Meh!” Anna waves her hand dismissively. “You should have seen him on our wedding night, he was groping around like….”

“Mom!” Natalie scolds.

“Woah!” Mike chimes at the same time, raising up his hands. “T-M-I, Anna!”

“Whaa-haat?” Anna lets out a whiny twang, and it’s freakish how much she sounds like the Skip.

Ginny doubles over, unable to hold back her laughter. “Can I get a picture with you, Mrs. L?” Ginny blurts through her fingers, blinking tears from her eyes.

“That was supposed to be my question, sweetheart!” Anna chuckles, motioning at Ginny come by her side.

Anna cracks a couple of hilarious jokes and says the most outrageous things while Mike takes their pictures. Her jibes so funny that by the time they’re done taking a final selfie. Mike’s blushing, Natalie’s shaking her head at her mother and Ginny is in side-splitting hysterics

“Oh Mike!” Anna cups Ginny’s cheek. There’s a very maternal, awestruck but very loving look on her face that eases Ginny’s heart. “You’re absolutely right.” She shakes her head. “She’s perfect!”

Ginny’s laughter arrests and Mike stiffens.

Mike balks, his face going pink.  “Wh-whoa! I never said that!”

“Oh, you didn’t?” Anna looks innocent. She drops her hand from Ginny’s face. “Hmm. You’re right. I think the word you used was ‘adorable’.”

Mike shrivels like a stuffed goose. He scowls, but his cheeks redden. He turns to Ginny and gives her a pointed look. “She’s getting forgetful in her old age. Got it all mixed up. I told her your screwball was perfect. Not you.”

“Aww…don’t be shy now.” Ginny ribs. “There’s no harm in you thinkin’ I’m perfect.” Ginny sighs theatrically. “I kinda am, ya’know.” She bats her eyelids coyly.

He narrows one eye at her when she grins (and yes, it is kinda' sexy when he does that). “Pffth!” He snorts. “Perfect dork.” He mutters.

Ginny covers her mouth and giggles. When she looks at Anna, she finds the older woman hawkeyeing Mike with a peculiar look.

“Mom’s joking!” Natalie interrupts, rolling her eyes. “She does that, a lot! C’mon Mom.” Natalie sighs. “We have to go.” She looks at Ginny. “She’s had quite a day. I don’t want her to overdo it.”

“No, she’s worried I’ll scare you off.” Anna winks at Ginny. “But you look like a tough gal – I’m sure you can take it.”

“Thank you for meeting us.” Natalie sings out in a rather admonishing tone, casting reproving glances at her mother.

Ginny feels oddly overcome with sadness at the prospect of Anna leaving. She gives mother and daughter her most genuine, heartfelt smiles. “It was my pleasure, Natalie, Mrs. L!” She pipes.

Anna cranes her neck around when Natalie starts wheeling her away. “Ginny! Come to our home this Sunday, for dinner!”

Natalie stops and looks at Mike nervously. Mike frowns and scrubs his beard.

“If you’re free, of course.” Anna chirps as an afterthought.

Ginny wonders what the fuss is about. “It’s okay…” Ginny starts. “I mean, I have to check my schedule but I’m sure I can…”

“Mom...” Natalie utters before she can complete. “Shouldn’t we check with Dad? I mean, we haven’t done those dinners in a while.”

Anna frowns pensively. “A while is too long, isn’t it?” She glances at Mike and Ginny for a few minutes and then she looks back at her daughter and nods her head affirmingly. “We’re doing dinner this Sunday.” She commands. “Tell Dad that I’m calling in the dying wish coupon!”

“ _Mom_!” Natalie exclaims and starts to push the wheelchair. “Jesus! Do you have to be so melodramatic?”

“Don’t you take the Lord’s name in vain, hon.” Anna retorts. Ginny spots a mischievous look on her worn-down face. “And besides," She adds. "It works, doesn’t it?”

“You should really see her with Al.” Mike snorts as Anna and Natalie disappear around the curb, barbs thrown freely at each other. “It’s like ‘ _I love Lucy’_ on steroids.”

“I can only imagine.” Ginny sighs with a sad smile. She unlocks her phone to look at her pictures with Anna and sees ten missed calls from Amelia. She dials Amelia’s number, intending to tell her she’ll meet her at player’s parking, but before she gets a word in, she gets a sound earful about taking more than a 'few minutes' and that there are sponsors waiting to get introduced to her.

“I’ve gotta go back…” Ginny hangs up the phone abruptly, hiding the irritation at Amelia's arrogant scoldings. “Are you – coming for the party tonight?”

“Er – yeah.” He scratches the back of his head. He looks nervous for a few minutes, before he glances at her. Then forehead relaxes and his cheeks spread out in a wide, adorable grin.

It reminds her of the look he gave her on field, just after they hugged.

Which reminds her of the rough scrape of his beard at her ear, the low drone of his unintelligible murmur…the way her body shivered when his voice-waves hit the inside of her ear. Logically, it must have been a congratulatory thing he said but it _felt_ like something else. Something more important.

“Oh.” She says, “I didn’t hear what you said to me out there– out on the field…you know, after we won? It was crazy!”

His eyebrows cross at first, then his throat bobs obviously when he swallows and an unreadable expression overcomes his face.

“Yeah…” He clears his throat.  “I uh – it was nothing.”

He’s evasive, but Ginny knows it’s not a lie either. The easier thing would be to pretend that he didn’t remember or better yet, fib about congratulating her.

He does neither of those things. Instead, he gives her a small fist bump, turns around and walks away.

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

All the physically and mentally demanding baseball training sessions and boot camps that Ginny had endured in her life did not compare to the two gruelling hours of being rendered immobile under Evelyn’s artistry. Every ridiculous, demeaning affront, profanity and insult she’d survived from coaches, trainers, managers, teammates – even Pop, paled in front of the _‘I’m a Mom and I will kill you with just my eyes’_ glare that Evelyn burned into Ginny’s face every time she made to fidget. But, at least, Ginny can confidently say that she’s more knowledgeable about the nuances of makeup and styling. (So, what if Evelyn nearly blinded her?) Now she knows that there’s a difference between strong hold and medium hold hairspray,  that it takes _three_ types of curling irons to make her naturally curly hair look fashionably curly, that there’s _no_ such thing as too much glitter; that contours and highlights are not just for Kardashians, that layers and layers of expensive artificial gunk are needed for a face aspiring for a  ‘natural’ look, that eyeshadow and mascara when stabbed into her eye can be a fate worse than getting beaned in her boobs (but she’s just gonna have to nut up and face it because that’s the price of beauty.)

Amelia brings along a designer dress for Ginny to wear. A pretty red number which in Evie’s words is ‘the face of God’. It fits her like a glove, has a flattering neckline, hugs her ass and waist the right way. But, it's the push-up inserts under the bust that misleadingly exaggerates her breast size, that mites Ginny.

Of course, Mike’s gobsmacked reaction when he lays eyes on her makes a believer out of her as far as sexy red dresses and divine parallels are concerned.

 

The _Padres’_ gala for the Foundation is unreal.

Its stunning ambience is unlike anything Ginny’s seen before and she can confidently attest that no amount of coaching from Amelia could make her feel less awkward about walking a red carpet for the first time amid screams and shouts of her name, half-blinded by the sparkling lights of exploding camera flashes.

She fumbles through it somewhat - learning how to hold her head and proportion her smile. And then she sees Mike.

How on earth he managed to work a pearl-grey shirt under a crisp, black suit with no tie over that lumberjack beard to look irresistibly fuckable was beyond her. That ridiculous silk pocketsquare gave him an older, sophisticated edge - in a hot, sexy-professor way.

Ginny snaps her head away after she spots him at first, unable to trust herself to act like a grownup who's got it together and not topple over her sky high heels like the harebrained teenager she feels like inside given the sudden thrill running through her body, the bounding rhythm inside her ribcage or the sweatiness between her boobs and her thighs.

When she finds some semblance of control over her traitorous urges, she pretends to just-notice him with a smile but he’s (surprise, surprise) scowling.

His eyes zoom to her cleavage first before they refocus guiltily on her face. He pulls his gaping mouth into a firm, grumpy line and his discomfort seems to increase progressively as he draws nearer.  He nods a couple of times, mumbles a couple of things about her looking nice and then he takes off after a couple of photographs for the paps.

Ginny takes it as compliment.

 

She feels guilty and fraudulent for being the star attraction of the event. The party is a fundraiser for a Foundation that for victims of Breast Cancer and yet, everyone just wants to talk to her about _her_ when she’s not even a major league player yet. 

Several important people from the MLB approach her directly to make acquaintance. Amelia introduces her to several potential sponsors, all of whom seem more excited to meet her than she is to meet them.  A lot of other players from the AL and NL who are also benefactors of the Foundation seemed interested in befriending her. 

The only person at the party who’s more in demand than her also happens to be the only person that Ginny is truly impressed by. The formidable Maxine Armstrong is intelligent, polished, extremely affable, with a commanding presence. Three minutes with her and Ginny wants to _be_ her. Maxine brushes off several high-profile people to spend a good ten minutes chatting with her. After Maxine leaves, she immediately finds herself flocked by players from the _Padres_.

The problem is, she can’t make excuses and slip away, either.  She’s been clocking Trevor in her peripheral vision for the past ten minutes.  He’s lingering in the side lines, trying to catch her eye, making it obvious he’s looking for an opening to talk to her alone. She fakes her laughs and pretend-smiles to the point where her jaws and cheeks throb. Her lungs feel ten times smaller and starved for air. It’s strenuous to be among so many people when everything inside her craves isolation. 

Blip is off chatting with two guys she recognizes as _Cardinals_ , so she can’t seek refuge with him. Evelyn is huddled somewhere with the other WAGs and Ginny can’t handle a gaggle of gossiping women that she doesn’t know right now.

Frantic for the one reliable source respite, she bobs her head around looking for Mike. Her eyes locate him almost instantly, huddled in conversation with -

Amelia.

He has a dreamy look in his eyes with his charming, flirty smile on full beam, while Amelia (icy, unmovable, tough-to-impress, Amelia!) was grinning and giggling like a schoolgirl.

Ginny's chest tightens while she struggles to stay focussed. A surge of something bitter and nauseating rises all the way up her throat to her mouth. The taste in her mouth reminds her of that one time she had gastroenteritis where all she puked was bile. It tastes of the night she saw Mike flirting with Moira, it tastes of Mom and Kevin. It tastes of Trevor _._

Her thoughts are in a rollercoaster tumble between the half-inspiring and half-intimidating echoes of the conversation she just had with Maxine Armstrong, her discomfort in a crowd, her self-consciousness about the fact that she’s not a major leaguer yet, the image of Mike and Amelia flirting and permuting ways to avoid Trevor.

Andy Carter somehow seems to sense her discomfort and chaperones her to the bar under the pretext of getting her to taste something fancy. Ginny goes willingly, casting fidgety, wary glances whenever she hears Mike’s boisterous laugh. Dismayed at the growing physical proximity to Amelia, she diverts Andy to the absolute far edge, behind a pillar where she can avoid seeing them. Andy susses out her intentions pretty quick. He looks at the couple then looks back at Ginny with a frown, but refrains from commenting.

Ginny grabs a bottle of water and cranks it open. “So, um…” Ginny says, trying to distract herself and him. “You and Stykes? Tell me more.”

Andy’s face falls.

“I mean, if you want to.” Ginny shrugs.

“Things are difficult.” He sighs. “Lance, he’s – he hasn’t come out to his family, yet. They’re pretty religious.”

“Ouch. Is that why y’all fought?”

Andy rubs his face. “We fought about a lot of things. Mainly baseball.”

“Baseball?”

“He loves baseball, I love baseball. Both of us have sacrificed too much to give out the dreams. We can’t both be active players and be together. Even if the MLB updates their inclusion policy. It’ll be impossible for us to play on the same team, or against each other. The conflicts of interests, the sheer amount of drama…it will be...it’s just too…” He huffs. “It’s too complicated, Ginny.”

“’M sorry, Andy.” Ginny says.

“To be honest, I never expected to find my soulmate in…”

“Soulmate?” Ginny interrupts. “You believe in all that?”

“Yeah, don’t you?”

“No.”

“You don’t believe in fate.”

“Nope.”

“Well, I guess I do. I think some people are just drawn together by these invisible strings despite the most inconvenient circumstances.”

“Sounds very movie-like.”

“It is. All I can say is, I never expected to fall for a teammate...” Ginny snorts, glancing back at Mike, who’s still chatting with (ew!) Amelia. “…or another ballplayer, for that matter.” Andy completes. Ginny clucks her tongue, tossing her head around to check for Trevor.  

“It’s not as romantic as it’s made out to be.” She comments cynically, thinking of both men.

“Guess I should’ve had the sense to adopt a code, mm? Like yours?”

“My code?”

“Oh.” He looks confused. “Lawson told us you had a code about not hooking up ballplayers. Was he pranking us?”

“No – no.” Ginny frowns, she glances in Mike’s direction. He’s not there anymore. She spots Amelia in conversation with Oscar Araguella. “It’s – my code.” She admits. “I’m surprised he told you.”

“Oh, not me, it’s just the guys were just…being asses...” Andy starts to explain. “The day before you arrived they were pestering him and Blip for personal intel on you.” Andy chuckles.

Ginny grimaces.

“So, in the spirit of ‘telling stuff’, are the rumours true? About you and Davis?” He nods to a point beyond Ginny’s shoulder.

She squeezes her eyes shut.

“Oh.” Andy understands. “Well, he’s at your six, so don’t turn around.”

Ginny nods.

“Was it serious?”

“It was a serious mistake.” Ginny says, sullenly.

“I’d never call love a mistake.”

“ _Thinking_ it was love was a mistake.”

“Looks like it still is, from what I see on his face.” Andy eyes that same point beyond her shoulder and glances back at her.

“Yeah, he can be quite convincing.” She mutters sarcastically. “Look, it’s a long story. I don’t wanna talk about it, ‘kay?”

“O-kay.” Andy chuckles into his drink.

“What?”

Andy tilts his head. “I’m thinkin’ Mikey knows the whole story.”

Ginny doesn’t respond.

“Y’know it takes a special kind of asshole to evoke murder in Mike Lawson’s eyes.”

“What are you talking about?”

Andy’s eyes move at a point beyond her other shoulder, away from where Trevor’s lurking. “The way he’s been looking at Davis this whole time…” Andy whistles suggestively, completing his insinuation.

Only she doesn’t know what he’s insinuating.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Andy stifles an amused snigger. “It means what it does.”  His eyes widen abruptly and he clears his throat. Ginny braces for the worst, expecting Trevor, but..

…it’s worse. 

“Yo Mikey, wassup?”

(It’s worse because she can’t deny it anymore: that, she doesn’t turn _need_ to around; that, there’s something so distinct about Mike’s aura that she can feel his soothing, calming presence in her vicinity without looking.).

“Hey man!” Mike leans between them, signalling the bartender. “Give us a minute, would you?”

Andy mock salutes and tactfully moves away. Her spine stiffens when Mike turns around leaning his back against the table facing the party and his arm brushes against her. When Ginny looks up at him she notices his eyes fixed in Trevor's direction. “What’s he doing over there?” Mike asks her softly.

“He’s on the _Cardinals_ team, I guess they sent him an invite.” She answers in facetious tone.

“No I meant, he’s been stalking you for the last fifteen minutes. He tryn’a talk to you?”

“Maybe.” She shrugs. “Does it matter if he is?”

He makes an irritated grimace.

“Maybe wants to get back together with me.” Ginny snarks.

To which, Mike glances around like he’s checking if anyone’s listening.

“Maybe I should get back together with him.” Ginny mutters.

Mike shoots her a reproving look.

“Oh, don’t worry about my poor li’l code, Cap.” Ginny says, bitterly. “ _Everyone’_ s heard the rumours after all.” Ginny says, bitterly. “I’m beginning to see it as a good thing now. This is a life lesson for me. A reminder. _Not_ to break the code.” She looks at Mike pointedly. “Again.”

Mike’s face hardens. “Yeah.” He nods and jerks the drink out of the bartender’s hands.

“What are _you_ doing here, anyway?” Ginny asks, unable to check the acerbic tone in her voice. “You run out of agents to flirt with?”

Mike snaps his eyes at her.

Ginny gestures in Amelia’s direction. “What’s the matter, can’t find a camera blindspot to go get nookie?”

Mike looks away and downs his drink forcefully, in one go.

“I mean, she is your type.” Ginny shrugs. “Blonde, y’know? She’s beautiful, smart…”

“Age appropriate.” He prompts.

Ginny whips her head at him.

His glare darkens and his voice sounds clipped. “Blip’s words, not mine.”

_Why the hell would Blip be talking to Mike about Amelia? Or was Mike talking to Blip about her?_

Ginny glares at him, and he glares back at her.

“Who died and made you the boss of my social life?” He baits.

“Fuck off.” She mutters.

“You fuck off.” He retaliates, slapping the glass on the table. “I’m done here. Oh and by the way, Lover boy’s still waiting on you.”

“Baker? Lawson?” Al comes up to them before Mike gets a chance to stalk off. “Can I talk to ya both?” He asks, yanking at his bowtie like he finds it uncomfortable.

Ginny schools her expressions and smiles cordially at Al. Mike only glowers. Ginny nods, Mike just makes a gruff sort of noise that Al presumably interprets as a ‘yes’. He alternates curious glances between them both and then shakes his head as though whatever vibe he sensed was unimportant. He starts by complaining how loud the party is, and how this noise that’s playing in the background isn’t music and goes to assert the fact that he only showed up for a face-presentation and that he’s fed and leaving early. 

“I didn’t get a chance to give you a kudos for today. Good job, Rook.” He says, looking at Ginny. “Keep that up and San Diego might be your home sooner than you think.”

“Thanks, Skip.”

“And thank you for meeting my Anna.” He says, a shadow falling on his face.  “I haven’t seen her excited about anything in a while.” He says. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me.”

Ginny puts her fury on pause and exchanges a look with Mike. Her smile widens when she directs her gaze at Luongo. “The pleasure was mine, Skip, I assure you.”

He looks uncomfortable, and glances at Mike as if he's seeking support. “Look, kid, there’s this thing we used to do every Sunday. Y’know…host dinner for family and close friends. We…we haven’t done much of those this past year, on account of my wife being unwell and all.”

Ginny nods.

Luongo shrugs his eyebrows. “I go home today to change into this stupid penguin suit and my Anna – she’s practically hopping around the house, chewing my ear off about doing dinner this Sunday.”

“Yeah, she invited me.” Ginny grins. “I hope it’s okay with you, Skip, but I’d like to come.”

Mike nods when Luongo looks at him quizzically.

Luongo looks wary and frustrated all of a sudden. “Look, Baker, I don’t want you to feel obliged or anything. I know you’re busy. I also know that my Anna can be quite persuasive.” He warns. “Trust me. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

Her inside twists at the way he calls her ‘ _my_ Anna’. “And trust me when I say I’d love to come, Skip.” She asserts. 

He still doesn’t look convinced.

Ginny doesn’t think it makes sense to tell him that she already cancelled all pre-booked commitments for Sunday night much to Amelia’s chagrin.  “Consider my intentions selfish then.” She offers. “I haven’t had a home cooked meal in ages.”

Mike snorts a laugh. “Yeah, don’t be fooled by her size, Skip. She can eat!”

Ginny swats his arm.

Luongo’s haggard, constantly irritated face transforms into something wonderful.  It's filled with a different shade of joy and much to Ginny’s surprise, he looks genuinely excited. “It’s nothing fancy, okay? I hope you like Italian.”

“I love Italian.” She smiles.

“He knows the address.” Al gestures at Mike, smiling at Ginny warmly.

Ginny nods.

“You’ll make my wife really happy, Baker.” Al says, shaking her hand. “So, thank you in advance for accepting the invitation.”

“Yeah well it’s no trouble, Skip. Mrs. L? She’s really something, Sir.” 

A shy, affectionate, and wistful shadow falls on Al’s face. “Yeah…” He beams, “That she is. Can’t believe fate saw it fit to give her to me as my soulmate.”

“How long have they been married?” She asks Mike as they watch his retreating form waddle away.

“Forty years, I think,” He says. “Maybe more.”

“Wow.” She whispers.

“Yeah.”

“So that’s what real love looks like.” Ginny whispers, wondering inwardly if she’ll ever have that.

Mike doesn’t respond but she knows he’s heard her.

“I should go meet some people.” Mike murmurs.

“Yep.”

Something about the look on Al’s face when he talks about Anna just makes her recall what Andy said about soulmates. She feels very lonely and resentful at the same time. That throttling feeling in her chest escalates, her chest feels tight and sweat breaks out. Her dress is suffocating her. Her makeup feels like plaster.

Mike’s knuckles brush her arm. “You okay?”

She can’t look at him. “Yeah – I just…” She fans herself. “I think I need some air.”

Mike nods and shows her the way to the balcony. “You want me to come with?” He asks, with concern.

“Nope.” She squawks. “Nope, I’m good.”

Ginny puts one foot ahead of the other, plastering a smile for the people who try to stop her on the way. As soon as she spots a clear line to the balcony, she runs out into the illuminated and thankfully deserted open space, sucking in deep, lungfuls. It takes a couple of minutes for that choking feeling to settle, it takes longer for her chest to stop hurting.

“Excuse me, Miss Baker.” A man’s voice precedes the sound of footsteps. “Are you alright?”

Ginny’s relief that it isn’t Trevor supersedes her irritation at not finding being able to find any more than moment alone. She turns around and finds a tall, handsome man with a wheat-brown complexion, dressed in a tuxedo standing at the large doors, holding a glass of clear liquid.

“I’m fine.” She smiles politely.

“These things can be quite suffocating.” He speaks in a suave, refined accent that might be either British or Australian. “Should I arrange for some water?”

The way he pronounces water ( _waw-tah_ ) amuses her. “I could use a drink.” She chuckles. “Which is really weird because I just came from the bar.”

He comes closer and leans across the pillar and offers her his glass. “At the moment, all I’ve got is this I’m afraid. But if you tell me your poison I’ll be happy to fetch it for you.”

He has a mesmerizing smile and equally mesmerizing voice.

“No, it’s fine.” Ginny says, reaching for it. “Do you mind if I…?”

He hands it to her with a pleasant smile.

“It’s not…spiked or anything is it?” She grimaces.

He lets out a crisp, clean chuckle. He holds up two fingers. “I sweat on my honour as a gentleman. I’m not trying to roofie you. Though, I wouldn’t recommend _that_ particular drink for calming nerves.”

“Your honour as a gentleman?” Ginny chortles and shakes her head. She takes a sip and gags. “Ew! What is that?”

“Gin and tonic.” He smirks amusedly when she hands it back to him.

“Gin and tonic?” Ginny exclaims. “What are you James Bond?”

He sniggers. “Sadly, no.”

“Why cloak ‘n dagger, servin’ the crown, not your thing?”

“No.” He chuckles.

“Are you a benefactor?” She asks, looking in the direction of the party.

“Well, I did just write them a cheque, so I suppose I am.” He sighs. “But, I’m here as a plus one.”

“With your girlfriend?”

He slants his head. “We’re together, yes."

It sounds like he's being evasive.

"I’ll be honest," He says. "I only came because I wanted to meet you.” He speaks in a way that makes Ginny blush. “Looks like fate saw it fit to give me an opportunity to talk to you.” He sets the glass on the marble baluster.

Ginny sniggers at the word 'fate'.

“Where’s your lady?” Ginny asks, looking in the direction of the party.

“Oh, she was talking with that awfully loud woman on ESPN last I saw her. I don’t follow American Sports too closely, I’m afraid.”

“Right. So, how’d you guys meet, then?”

“I imagine it was fate.”

“Fate?” Ginny winces.   _What is it about this night and the word ‘fate’?_

“Have you heard of a Chinese word _yuanfen?”_

“Nope, I barely know all the English ones.” She giggles.

He sniggers. “Well, there’s a proverb: _y_ _ǒu yuán wú fèn_ …” He explains. “It means to have fate without destiny. They say it’s what decides how soulmates meet and part.”

 _Fate, soulmates…_ it’s like she can’t catch a break tonight.

“So, is she your fate or your destiny?” Ginny asks, curious and uninterested at the same time.

“I should hope the latter. They say _yuanfen_ determines people who are fated to come together, despite the most inconvenient of circumstances. They may not necessarily be destined to stay together depending on how strong _yuanfen_ is. So, who knows?”

It’s almost an echo of Andy’s words and for some reason the image of Mike pops up in her mind.

“Sorry, I don’t believe in all that.” Ginny says, shaking off her thoughts.

He nods with a calming smile. “It’s alright, I was just making conversation. Looks like it worked.”

It did work and Ginny's grateful that she isn’t quite so tensed any more. “Thank you.” She grins. “I guess I know a new word, now. So, um – what – what do you do, Mr…uh?”

“David.” He answers. “I’m a surgeon.”

“Really? What kind?”

“The pediatric cardiothoracic kind.”

“Those are too many big words for one kind.” Ginny giggles. “So, that means what? You’re a kid heart surgeon.”

“Yes, a kid heart surgeon.” He smirks.

“Well, that is impressive, Doctor!” She reaches her hand out. He clasps her hand. It’s cold and firm but not clammy.  

“Please call me David.” He says.

“Is David your last name or first name?” Ginny grins, aware that he’s still holding her hand.

He doesn’t have an opportunity to complete. He opens his mouth to speak, just as Ginny starts to pull her hand away, something happens.

Well, Mike happens.

(Ginny has _no_ idea where he came from!)

 _Crack!_ A yelp follows and Dr. David recoils, grabbing his jaw, hissing with pain, cussing out some fancy-ass Brit-sounding slurs. Mike stumbles back with his face contorted with fury and his hand still curled in a fist.

“Mike!”

The voice isn’t hers, even though she was about to say  _something_ along the same lines.

(And, Ginny has _no_ idea where Rachel Patrick came from, either.)

Rachel Patrick rushes towards Dr. David and catches his face to examine it. She jerks her head at Mike. “What is wrong with you?” She shrieks.

Ginny knows she ought to yell at her Captain and demand an explanation for being such an asshat but for some reason there’s only thing that concerns her. She grabs Mike’s hand to check the knuckles. When he starts pulling it back, she grimaces angrily and yanks it closer, running her fingers along his. They’re a little red, but that could also be the lighting in the balcony. He doesn’t even flinch when she touches the contact points. She wonders if his knuckles are made of lead or something, or if he’s too pissed off to feel pain. “Are you crazy?” Ginny whispers angrily. “You could have permanently damaged it.”

“How dare you?” Rachel interjects, around at the same time.

Mike seems to have one answer for both women it would seem. “ _Pffth!”_

“Wow.” Ginny retorts. “That’s what you’re going with?”

He wrenches his hand out of Ginny’s and turns abruptly like he’s going to leave.

“I should have you arrested for assault.” Rachel shouts.

“No, you won’t.” Mike retorts while stalking off. “I didn’t even hit him that hard.”

“And that makes this okay?” Rachel returns, stroking David’s jaw – a little too intimately.

(Later, Ginny will wonder if it was because she was still in shock that her actions didn’t register.)

Mike spins around and the unmasked rage and anger on his face reminds Ginny of the bitterness of that night, out on the hill in San Antonio. He turns his cold glare at David. “Stay the fuck away from my Rookie!” He bites out.

Before Ginny can verbally protest the testosterone display, a noise stalls her. David, who’s still catching his sore jaw, chuckles sardonically.  “Amazing!” He says.

“What?” Ginny blurts before she can think.

David shakes his head and glances at Rachel, who’s staring at Mike with angry, emotional eyes.

“You tell him you’re in love with me.” David says to Rachel. “And he just…turns around and walks away. Not one word.” David looks at Ginny. “And _this_ is how he reacts when I’m merely chatting with her?”

That's when it hits her.

_David.  Polite, chivalrous, Chinese-word quoting, gin’n’tonic offering David is Rachel’s lover._

Ginny gasps, feeling so stupid. 

Rachel looks a mortified when Ginny looks at her in astonishment.

Mike’s jaw rolls from side to side, and Ginny can hear the grind of teeth on teeth. His face turns expressionless, but the vein in his temple bulges like it’s about to pop. 

“Mike.” Ginny warns, pointing towards the small crowd of people that have gathered by the large doors, probably having heard all the commotion. Mike glances at them and then turns to Rachel. He doesn’t look at her face, but he speaks. “I’m sorry.” He bites out. “I wasn’t thinking straight.”

Everything about that statement sounds like an outright lie.

“That’s not going to stop me from pressing charges.” David mumbles.

“Press charges if you want.” Mike spits. “Just leave her out of it.” He points to Ginny.

_Huh?_

“Her?” David mocks, looking at Ginny, but the dare in the undertone is evident.

Mike’s face hardens as he steps forward. “You _lover_.” He whispers, loud enough for only Ginny, Rachel and David to hear, “for whatever it’s worth, is still my _wife_.”

Whatever that is meant imply, it seems to dawn on David. Rachel steps forward like she’s ready to slap Mike.

“I am drunk,” Mike states (despite the fact, he sounds remarkably coherent and lucidly sober). “I saw the man who was fucking _my wife_ for six months behind my back, and I overreacted.” He glances at Rachel. “ _That’s_ my apology. I suggest you accept it here, in private and leave Baker out of _your_ garbage.”  

Rachel mouth drops, veritably stupefied.

“Unless you want me to issue it formally?” Mike adds, with a sneer.

Rachel’s face changes to horror. She steps back as though she’s afraid of her husband (ex-husband, whatever). Her eyes swing to Ginny and the manner of her confusion suggests that it’s not Mike’s threat that appalls her as much as the fact that he’s _making_ one.

Ginny can’t blame her. It scares the fuck out of her to see Mike like this, too. The spite in his tone is one thing, but when Mike’s mouth spreads in that cold and sarcastic grimace, it’s enough to send a chill to run down Ginny’s spine.

(Except Ginny doesn’t quite understand what the threat is. Doesn’t Mike end up the loser by admitting to punching David?)

“Ginny!” Amelia's voice intervenes. Ginny turns to find her stepping into the balcony, looking between David who’s nursing his jaw, Rachel Patrick, Mike and her. “What’s…?” Amelia glances back at their onlookers. “What’s going on?”

Blip, Andy and some other Padres have made their way to the front.

David snorts sarcastically, releasing his jaw. He wraps his arm around Rachel and gently rocks her. “It’s alright, love.” He says, in a sweet, calming tone. “No harm, no foul. Let’s go.” He glances at Ginny. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Baker.”

Ginny nods dumbly.

 

* * *

 

“What the hell happened out there?” Amelia hisses.

She has no clue. Why the hell would Mike admit guilt? Why did it seem that he had an upper hand in that situation? And why did he want to use it for Ginny’s sake?

“You have any idea how dangerous it is if you’re caught in the middle of the brawl?” Amelia scolds. “Do you know what it would do for your image?”

Ginny stops pacing the service corridor and stares at Amelia.

_My image..._

“Ginny.” Amelia looks frustrated when she sees Ginny’s confusion. “You’re about to be the biggest story in the world – not just in baseball or sport, I mean _the_ _world_. It’s one thing if gossip is made up about you, it’s a whole another thing if you’re actively seeking scandal!”

Ginny stares at Amelia silently.

“What were you and Mike talking about?” Ginny asks curtly, when Amelia opens her mouth.

Amelia’s face pales at first, then it starts going pink, and it’s creepy. “I was trying to gauge if he…he was the one. Your…guy.”

“I told you he wasn’t.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t believe you.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I just had a doubt – it’s nothing.” Amelia shakes her head.

“No, it’s not nothing. You owe me an explanation.”

“I don’t know why – it’s just the way you two behave around each other...” She shakes her head again. “You still carry his rookie card and you have his poster on your wall.” She clears her throat.

“He was - _is_ married! You think I’d be that stupid?”

Amelia pinches her mouth.

“ _I_ told you it wasn’t him and _my_ word should have been good enough for you, Amelia. What part of ‘Mike is not the guy’ did you not understand?”

“Ginny.” Amelia says, in a very placating tone. “You’re young, you're beautiful and you’re going to be famous. Your brand will be bigger than anything that you can imagine! I’m not saying that everyone you meet is out to hurt you, but there will be plenty of people who will want to use you. You’re only twenty-one – and you haven’t really dated enough to know the good ones from the bad. I’m just looking out for you. He’s – much older than you, his priorities are bound to be different. Older men love the attention of younger women because it makes them feel desirable."

She might as well be talking about Al, the way she stresses on the word 'older'.

"And," Amelia gets a silly smile. "I mean I can see the appeal for you. He – he’s charming, I guess. He made me laugh.” Amelia widens her eyes and blushes. “A lot.”

Ginny rolls her eyes. She crosses her hands over her chest and throws her a cynical look. “Sounds like you’re smitten, not me.” Ginny bites out.

Amelia’s face pales.

Ginny shakes her head and starts walking towards the service entrance of the party.

“Where are you going?” Amelia sounds alarmed.

“I can’t be around you right now, Amelia.” Ginny says. “I am tired of you just barging in and thinking you know what’s best for me. Yeah! I’m twenty-one! Yeah, I don’t know as much about negotiating contracts, and getting endorsements as much as you – but that doesn’t mean you get to control and interfere in every aspect of my life. Especially the parts that are - none of your business.”

“Ginny, you’d be nowhere without me!” Amelia hisses.

“No,” Ginny half-turns to her. “I’d be _somewhere_ without you, Amelia. Maybe it wouldn’t be this glamorous, maybe I wouldn’t get noticed as quickly, or maybe it would have happened sooner. Either way, I wouldn’t be nowhere.”

Amelia’s small chin drops.

Ginny takes in a deep breath and exhales it out. “If you still want to represent me, I’ll see you before the game tomorrow. Right now, I’d like to be with my friends. Maybe have some real fun for a change.”

Ginny doesn’t wait for Amelia’s reply before she walks away.

 

She deliberately keeps a clear radius from Rachel Patrick and David (who she doesn’t find so mesmerizing anymore) as she wanders around the party. She finds Blip and Evie who are just about to leave, citing the sitter's timings as a reason. The very fact that neither Blip nor Evelyn pester her about the details of the scuffle when she inquires about Mike’s whereabouts is the irrefutable evidence that they know about the true state of Mike’s marriage and the reasons for its breakdown. They point her in the right direction before bidding their good nights.

Mike looks edgy and ready to flee at the slightest chance, but he seems trapped in conversation by Oscar Araguella. Ginny heads in his direction but she’s forced to take beeline around a wider path when Trevor comes into her view. Andy intercepts her and drags her to the dance floor, causing Trevor to shy away. Ginny uses Andy as a cover to keep Mike in her line of sight. 

“Do you know why he punched the wifestealer?” Andy mumbles, out the blue.

Ginny’s head jerks towards him as they sway. Andy’s demeanour is different, his joviality seems to have waned and he seems more contemplative.

"I imagine it’s because he’s a wifestealer?” Ginny snickers uncomfortably.

“Mike would never get in a fight over Rachel.” Andy shakes his head.  

“He did punch your brother over flirting with said wife.”

Andy shakes his head and a fond grin breaks on his face. “You are so adorable.”

“Huh. Why?”

“Because you believe that.”

“Believe what?”

“Look, that’s just the story he told everyone – in fact that’s probably the story he told Rachel. She was nowhere near the scene when it happened. It’s true Orson was flirting with Rachel earlier, but it was harmless, very PG, not the type of thing that Mikey would take seriously.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Andy smiles. “I told you it takes a special kind of asshole to evoke murder in Mike’s eyes. I assure you, he didn’t punch Orson over Rachel, Ginny.”

“What do you mean?”

Andy makes a tired noise. “Orson was really drunk that night. He was angry.”

“Why?”

“I’d – just come out to the family, to him.”

“Oh.”

“The truth is, my brother was angry at me for – I dunno – just me being gay, I guess. He got really drunk, kept calling me ‘faggot’ in front of everyone. Then he started cracking really, offensive jokes. I mean, it was too obvious. Mikey was just trying to get Orson to behave, but things got escalated. I don’t think he intended to punch Orson, though. All I know is if it hadn’t gone down the way it did, my secret would be out – and not in the way I wanted it disclosed.”

Ginny covers her mouth with one hand in shock.

Andy shrugs. “That’s the truth.” Andy asserts, pulling her hand off to return to their dancing stance. “Now, apart from Orson, Mike and me, you’re the only other person who knows it.”

“But – why’d they put him in double A?”

“Whoever was on the disciplinary committee was stupid enough to think he’d try to settle a score with me. Everyone thinks they know Mike, Ginny – but truth is very few people do.”

Ginny stares at Andy, unable to believe what she’s hearing. 

“Why would you tell me all this?” Ginny asks.

Andy smiles mysteriously and then releases her. “Mikey looks like he’s planning to leave, Ginny.”

Ginny looks in Mike’s direction and sure enough he’s on his way out. He turns towards the dance floor and their eyes meet. There’s something intense and unreadable but very familiar in his gaze. Her heart skips a beat, but she's long accepted that that's not a new occurrence.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Ginny Baker.” Andy whispers in her ear and nudges her in his direction. "Have fun tonight."

 

“What idiot decides six-inch heels were fun, ha?” She mutters to herself between pants. “You can’t even fucking run in them! Mike!” Ginny calls as she follows him. "Mike!"

“Go away, Baker.” He barks as he strides on, his head hunched over his phone.

Ginny hops out of her heels and chases after him barefoot.  “Mike, c’mon!” 

He glances back at her still walking, spots her shoes in her hands. He halts mid-track and then barks. “Put your goddamn shoes on, Rookie! You'll hurt yourself”

“My feet hurt.” She whines.

He slaps his eyes and shakes his head, muttering something that sounds like a prayer. He looks exasperated when he pulls his hand off, but at least there’s a small smile on his face.

“You’re an idiot.” He says.

“So are you.” She replies.

He shakes his head and looks down at his phone. “My car’ll be here soon. Go back to the party. Baker.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then, let me come with.” She says.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

He stares at her with that grouchy-mopey face. Ginny feels everything inside her melt. She just wants to hug him.

“I’m going to the beach.” Mike says.

“At this hour?”

“Yeah, you gotta problem with that?”

“No! No! Nope! I’ve always wanted to see the beach.”

His face blanks out for a second. “Fuck.” He mutters.

“Okay!” She lifts her free palm, indignantly. “If you’re that against it…”

“Seriously, Rookie.” He snaps. “Can you be any less self-absorbed?”

“Hey! I take my notes from you!” She retorts.

Mike sticks his forefinger out to a point behind her. Ginny spins around and… “Fuck.” She mutters.

“Yeah, my point exactly.” Mike snorts.

“Ginny!” Trevor runs up to her. “Please, can we just… _talk_ for a couple?”

“I ain’t got nothin’ to say to you.” Ginny crosses her arms.

“C’mon, just…” He looks beyond her shoulder at Mike and drops his voice. “Hear me out, please.”

Ginny whips her head towards Mike. “When does your car get here?”

“Three minutes.” Mike says, checking his phone.

“That’s all the time you got.” Ginny gestures at Trevor.

“What? You wanna do this, in front of him?” Trevor looks irritated.

“Yes.”

“Gin, c’mon.”

“It’s better if there’s a witness. For your sake.”

“For what?”

“For when I shove these…!” She shows him the pointed edge of her heels, “- up your lyin’ ass!”

She hears Mike's snigger behind her.

“Now, say what you gotta say, then go.” Ginny barks.

Trevor casts an unhappy glance at Mike. He sighs and then goes off on the usual train of how sorry he is, and how he didn’t realize how it would impact her or her reputation, how he loved her, how he still loves her. She stops him when she hears the car rolling up.

“I hope you deleted those pictures.” She says.

“I did, I promise.”

“You’ve lied to me before.”

“It wasn’t lying, Ginny.”

“See, what you did, what you’re doing now, it’s worse. You think it’s okay for you to hide the truth from me. You think it’s okay to lie, because it suits you. You think just ‘cause I loved you, that I would be okay that you _manipulated_ me into loving you? You lied to me, Trevor. The least you can do is admit it.”

Trevor looks stumped.

“Baker.” Mike’s voice sounds after a small silence. Ginny hears the sound of the car door opening.

Ginny steps forward, dropping her voice. “Fuck off, Trevor. That’s all I gotta say to you.” Ginny whispers. “If you _ever_ try to talk to me in any way more than a professional capacity again, I will find some way to hit you where it hurts. You hear me?”

The disappointed, ashamed look in Trevor's eyes does nothing for her. He swallows and nods. When she turns to the car Mike’s waiting with the door open and he’s wearing a small, proud smile.

Ginny connects it with the look on Al’s face when he talked about his Anna. She thinks of the look in Andy’s eyes when he talks of Stykie. She thinks of that _yuanfen_ thing that Dr. David Wifestealer was talking about.

Ginny turns around and looks back at Trevor. “I’m happy for you, Trevor, on making it to themajors.” She says, loudly. “You worked hard.” She turns around and walks towards Mike with a smile on her face and her chin held high.

“I’d say that went pretty well, didn’t it?” Ginny asks with a big grin, when she reaches the car.

Mike narrows one eye at her, his sexy little smirk widening. “Rookie, I’d say that deserves a trip to the beach.” Mike murmurs, sweeping a glance down her body before snapping it back up to her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have been ‘inspired’ from a scene in Grey’s anatomy.  
> Apparently, Fox wanted to add a cliched never-useful storyline of Amelia getting pregnant with Mike’s baby. There are good ways to get inspired by dramedies, you know, like maybe when we see what happens in the next chapter? (evil smirk) but baby mama drama is all Fox can think of.  
> It’s like they’re trying to get me to hate Amelia’s very presence on the show. 
> 
> The best thing about my favourite human disaster’s relationship with Ginny is the trust they share and it sucks that they wanna screw with that in such a careless fashion.  
> Tell me what you thought of this chapter, aka, mikeginsanity’s Bawson and the Pitchless.

**Author's Note:**

> I would LOVE to hear what you think.


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